


Follow You

by wtflommy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya's List, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cleganebowl, Consensual Sex, Cover Art, Eventual Arya Stark/Sandor Clegane, F/M, Faceless Arya, Gen, Older Arya, Reunions, Season 8, Slow Burn, Violence, Winterfell, winter is coming, winter is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12223287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtflommy/pseuds/wtflommy
Summary: “So, you’re alive,” she pointed out, grabbing the flagon and filling his cup, then her own.Sandor took a drink, and regarded her, chewing on his lip in contemplation. “So are you,” he said at last, nodding in her direction.--With the army of the dead inching closer to Winterfell, two old companions reunite around a mutual desire for vengeance. What happens when they realize they're two sides of the same coin? It's one thing to think it, it's another thing to act upon it. Especially with everything else going on around them. But with no guarantee of a tomorrow, perhaps now is as good a time as any.





	1. reunions

**Author's Note:**

> My take on what would happen in Season 8 with a focus on Arya. Based on the show, I think Sandor has a closer relationship with Arya than Sansa (sorry SanSan/book fans), so I wanted to focus on their reunion and ultimately their story. The story also has heavy doses of 'holy shit the dead are coming' - so it's not a completely one-sided story. 
> 
> I tend to write really angsty, poignant stories so if you're looking for fluff (with this pair? hah!) or straight up smut, go elsewhere. :)

 

 

** 01\. reunions. **

—

_So you can drag me through Hell_   
_If it meant I could hold your hand_   
_I will follow you cause I'm under your spell_   
_And you can throw me to the flames_   
_I will follow you, I will follow you_   
  
_Come sink into me and let me breathe you in_   
_I'll be your gravity, you be my oxygen_   
_So dig two graves cause when you die_   
_I swear I'll be leaving by your side_

[ **- Follow You, Bring Me The Horizon** ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

 

 

“You look like someone took a piss in your wine, dwarf,” Sandor quipped as the man came up the stairs from below deck where he’d seen Jon Snow disappear a bit ago.

Sandor was leaning over the edge of the ship, trying his best to both get drunk and not give in to his seasickness. He offered Tyrion the wineskin he held, if for no other reason than to have both hands to steady himself on the ships’ rail. 

“You didn’t piss is _this_ , did you, Clegane?” Tyrion didn’t wait for an answer, drinking from the skin deeply. 

They stared out into the darkness of the sea, listening to the sound of the waves and the flap of the dragon’s wings. Sandor choked on bile, held himself steady and swallowed deeply. He would _not_ vomit, he willed himself. 

“Fucking boats,” he growled, taking the skin back from the dwarf and moving from the boat’s edge to find a crate he could sit on. 

“Why _are_ you here? I figured you had unfinished business with your brother, with that little display back at the pit,” Tyrion called over to him, enjoying the fresh air on his face. 

“Aye, but he’ll be there when we’re done with this bloody army of the dead. I’ve got some unfinished business in Winterfell,” he squinted, looking for the shore line in the moonlight. 

“I don’t much think Lady Sansa will return your advances, dog,” Tyrion offered warmly, joining him on the crates and taking the wineskin handed to him.

Sandor chuckled to himself, thinking of the little bird. He’d wondered how she got back to Winterfell, ending up as Lady of Winterfell, but figured he’d have a chance to talk to her once they arrived. If she wasn’t still scared of him.

“It’s the younger one I’m interested in,” he admitted.

“A bit young, don’t you think, Clegane?” Tyrion waggled an eyebrow at him.

Sandor scoffed, taking the skin back roughly. “Not like that, you fool.”

Tyrion counted on his fingers for a moment.

“She’s almost eighteen at this point I would think, a bit older than Sansa was when I married her,” he mused, messing with a piece of rope laying on the crate. “Not so weird, if you think about it.”

The larger man sighed heavily, clearly annoyed with the dwarf. “We traveled together a long time ago. She left me for dead when that one,” he nodded in the direction of Brienne and Podrick at the other end of the boat, “tried to take her from me.”

“I thought I sensed something between the two of you back there in King’s Landing. Brienne the Beauty tried to kill you, but you’re a tough old Hound.”

“Fuck off, Imp,” he spat, taking a drink. As far as he was concerned, the Hound was dead. “I just want to see the little wolf’s face when she sees I’m alive, is all.”

“Little wolf,” Tyrion chuckled. “You think she’s got a nickname for you, too?” 

Sandor bristled at the question, a deep scowl forming on his face. Tyrion hopped off the crate, taking the skin from Sandor. 

“Always a pleasure, Clegane,” he called back as he walked away with the wine.

 

* * *

 

Sansa watched as the riders entered Winterfell, two dragons flying in circles lazily above them. She was afraid of them, but nothing would ever compare to what she had already been through, she thought as she squared her shoulders. A few new faces joined Jon, as well as some familiar ones—Brienne, Podrick, Tyrion, Varys and—was that the Hound? She drew in a harsh breath, remembering the last time she saw him, during the Battle of the Blackwater, before regaining her composure. 

Jon dismounted his horse and walked to her, embracing her tightly. 

“You didn’t burn it down, I see,” he joked as he pulled away. 

She smiled kindly as he turned to Bran for the first time in years.

“Brother, it’s so good to see you. I hear you’ve had quite a journey,” Jon leaned down to hug his brother tightly, but Bran did not return the hug. He knew Jon was not his brother. 

“We need to talk when you have a moment,” he said distantly. Jon frowned and looked to Sansa who shrugged.

“I’ve no idea where Arya is,” she offered apologetically, changing the topic. 

“She did this the last time we hosted a royal procession,” Jon recalled with a smile, turning as Daenerys approached. “Lady Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Lady,” Sansa said softly, not ready to bend the knee just yet. Dany noticed, her lip twitching slightly. 

“And you, Lady Sansa. Jon has spoken highly of you. I look forward to getting to know you,” the Dragon Queen looked up to the sky, as Rhaegal and Drogon flew over. “And introducing you to my dragons,” she finished, cooly. 

Sansa blanched ever so slightly as she looked up at the two beasts in the air, screeching at each other. “It’ll be my pleasure,” she replied, meeting Daenerys’ gaze firmly. 

“You all must be tired from your journey,” she said louder, “Please join us in the Great Hall and we’ll get you off to your quarters shortly.” 

She stepped aside as Jon and Daenerys walked towards the hall, their entourage following closely behind. 

Tyrion caught her eye and stepped aside, taking her hand and kissing it gently.

“Lady Sansa,” he smiled up at her. “It’s so good to see you, though perhaps not under the best of circumstances.”

“Lord Tyrion. I’m not sure there are good circumstances anymore,” she suggested politely with a small smile. She didn’t realize how easy she had it when she was married to the dwarf. 

“Well here’s hoping we all can do something about that sooner than later,” he smiled, nodding and continuing past her to follow Daenerys. The glint of the Hand’s pin caught her eye under his cloak as he left.

Sansa turned to Brienne as she approached with Podrick. The distance between her and her protector seemed reflected in their eyes as they locked glances.

“It’s good to see you again, Lady Sansa,” Brienne smiled kindly, bowing slightly. 

“And you, Lady Brienne. Thank you for going in my place, I hope the journey was kind to you,” she offered in her typical diplomatic fashion. They turned to follow the rest of the group inside.

  

* * *

  

While the horses were stabled and all the attendants of Winterfell brought into the Great Hall, Jon went in search of his beloved baby sister. He found her standing in the Godswood, as though she was waiting for him. Arya turned to him as he approached, his steps crunching in the snow. 

For a moment, they just looked at each other in disbelief. They had both been through so much, it was written on their faces, in their eyes, and yet it was like the last day they saw each other, when he gifted her Needle. 

Wordlessly, they embraced tightly, tears running down both their cheeks, betraying their natures. They stayed that way for awhile, almost as though neither wanted to let the other go in fear they’d disappear forever. When they broke their embrace, Jon held her at arms length, looking over her proudly. She looked like a little Ned Stark, wearing her clothes and hair just like he would have. 

He recognized Needle at her hip and smiled. Noticing his glance, she pulled it from its sheath, rolling it in her hands with a flair that Syrio would have been proud of, before handing it to him, hilt first. 

“You still have it.” Jon looked over it, noting how well she had taken care of it. 

“We’ve both been on quite the journey,” she said cooly, her words heavy. He handed it back to her and watched as she rolled it in her hands again before sheathing it.

“I see you’ve learned how to use it,” he said, impressed. 

“Still sticking them with the pointy end,” she smiled at him.

“I want to hear all about this journey of yours, but we’d better get to the Great Hall or Sansa’ll have my neck,” his tone was a mix of amusement and annoyance that only she understood. 

With his arm around her shoulder, they walked through the snow of the Godswood back towards the courtyard. The Starks were all finally home.

 

* * *

 

People packed into the Great Hall, murmuring amongst themselves as they waited for the King of the North to enter the room. The Northerners grumbled about needing to get back and defend their homes, the Wildlings uneasy around the Northerners the longer they stayed, everyone worried about the dragons circling Winterfell as they huddled inside. 

Brienne of Tarth stood with her squire, Podrick Payne, towards the front, near the table where the Starks and Dragon Queen would sit shortly, her face twisted in an anxious grimace, hand on her sword as always. Jorah Mormont and Davos Seaworth stood amongst the Northerners, where Lyanna Mormont pointedly glared at her cousin. Sandor Clegane kept himself to the back of the room near one of the doors, curious about the coming conversation, but agitated at the number of people in the room. 

All any of them wanted was a hot bath, a hot meal and a warm bed. But there were pressing matters to attend to immediately. There was no time for pleasantries and reintroductions, as the door at the front of the room swung open and Jon walked in followed by Daenerys, Sansa, Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, and Arya pushing Bran. 

Jon sat at the middle of the table with Daenerys on one side and Sansa on the other. Tyrion, Varys and Missandei trailed to Daenerys’ left and Bran and Arya to Jon’s right. The Starks, clad in the furs of the North, were seated except for Arya who stood behind Bran in wool and leather, her arms behind her straight back, a dark, calculated expression on her face. 

She eyed the room, taking note of many familiar faces from the last time they all gathered in the Great Hall. Looking at the stone floor in the center of the room, she swore she could still see the stain of Baelish’s blood. There were a few new faces amongst the crowd as well, that she assumed traveled in with Jon, but she had not been there to greet him. Her grey eyes swept the room and widened only slightly when she came upon a face she had not expected to ever see again. 

Sandor had noticed her as well, his own eyes soft as though he was expecting to see her. An eerie smirk crossed her lips. But before either of them could process the moment, Jon interrupted. 

“Everyone, please,” he said sternly, silencing the echoing room. 

A charged silence came over the room, eyes fixing on the foreign woman sitting beside their King. 

“Our efforts in the South have worked to our advantage. Cersei has conceded for the time being and plans to send her forces North towards the incoming threat. With their armies, the Northern forces and Queen Daenerys’ support, we should see this Night through.”

The murmuring of the crowd grew louder, everyone talking over the other. Yohn Royce stood, chest puffed in agitation. 

“Your Grace, with respect. You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to bend the knee at will. We know nothing of this foreign invader _or_ her dragons,” he bristled, eyeing the blond woman next to Jon warily before sitting down. 

A chorus of agreement came from the chambers.

Jon looked exasperated. “I received a raven just a bit ago. The Night King has breached our walls. We need every ally we can get. Daenerys is the Queen we need, not Cersei—”

Daenerys stood up next to him, her chair scraping on the floor, her shoulders squared and expression grim. “My dragons are the least of your concerns, my lords. I have seen for myself what the North brings and if I intend to rule the seven kingdoms, I will not do it over a pile of bones and ash.”

“You expect us to trust a Lannister!” a lord yelled from the back. Tyrion blanched, looking towards Jon and Daenerys. 

“Lord Tyrion has proved himself a trustworthy and loyal servant of our cause,” Jon defended. 

“You chose me as your King. I am a bastard, but you chose me. Queen Daenerys could have had her dragons burn me alive, but she didn’t. She wants to help, I want to help. We are the living. We need to work together.”

Sandor couldn’t listen to the squabbling anymore and ducked out of the room. Whatever they decided, he’d follow orders like the dog he was. He walked back out into the cold air and pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders, clouds of air hanging in front of his face as he sighed. He hadn’t expected to ever come back to Winterfell. 

 

* * *

 

A modest feast was prepared in honor of the return of the King of the North. The Great Hall was transformed from the cold, dark execution hall of weeks before into a warmly lit room of long tables and candled chandeliers. 

The Starks and Queen Daenerys sat at the same table as before, with Arya taking a seat next to Jon this time. They got lost in conversation for a couple hours, rehashing their pasts in both tears and laughs, wine glass after wine glass. 

At the end of one of the tables, far away from the head table, Sandor sat listening to Davos rehash some ridiculous sea-faring story from his past, the old man’s cheeks ruddy from the wine he consumed. 

“And so I told him, mermaids aren’t real you dolt, that was a bloody seacow!” The men around Davos roared in laughter. Sandor didn’t find it particularly funny, but wasn’t completely offended by the stories either. At least there was wine.

He hadn’t noticed the time passing until Davos finally resigned his story telling and excused himself. Sandor was deep in his cups at that point, and thought he was hallucinating when the younger Stark girl sat across from him. 

Out of courtesy, the other men in the immediate area excused themselves as well when it was clear she only wanted to talk with him. They sat in silence for awhile, as though it were years ago beside a fire in the woods as they settled in for the evening. Arya watched her family from her vantage point, her stomach twisting in contrition. Finally she turned to Sandor, who had just stared at his cup, glowering now that it was empty. 

“So, you’re alive,” she pointed out, grabbing the flagon and filling his cup, then her own. 

Sandor took a drink, and regarded her, chewing on his lip in contemplation. “So are you,” he said at last, nodding in her direction. 

“Why are you traveling with my brother?” 

He realized in the time he had spent with the bastard, he hadn’t once mentioned his connection with the Stark girls. Did Jon even know that Arya had spent months with him, reliant on him to keep her safe? He hazarded a glance up to the head table and saw Jon watching them. The King nodded as he met his stare; Arya must have told him at least in passing of their time together. 

Sandor turned back to the young woman in front of him. She was so different now: clean for one and properly dressed, with hair just past her chin and pulled back like her brother’s. The way she held herself was different as well; there was a calculated grace to her, almost arrogant, really and he realized that perhaps she wasn’t as different as he thought. There was definitely something different, he just couldn’t put his finger on it in his stupor.

“Long story,” he took a deep drink of his wine. “Longer than I care to get into now. Let’s just say I’d like to stay living, so his was a worthy cause.”

“How’s your leg?” She smirked at him, trying to do her part to lighten the mood and poke some fun at him. 

“Fuck off,” he growled, only half serious. 

“You came in with Brienne, I guess you settled your differences?”

“ _You_ were our difference,” he grumbled, his words heavy with meaning. 

Arya refilled his cup as a gesture of good will. He had told himself the last one was his last cup, but if she was pouring, he’d keep drinking. The taste was warm, spicy on his tongue as he drank, looking down the cup at her as she looked around the room. She’d grown into a woman in the time since he’d last seen her, her face soft but taunt with life’s lessons. He always thought she looked boyish, and she still did, but her shape had filled out some, and he’d noticed the subtle curve of her hip, her breast— _stop it, fucking wine._

Sandor stood abruptly, swaying on his feet as the vertigo caught up with him. He grabbed the half full flagon and paused for a moment, looking down at her.

“You may still survive me yet,” he mumbled and turned to leave the Hall.

  

* * *

 

The Stark children had gathered in Bran’s quarters after the feast. Bran sat under his furs in his chair by the fire, with Samwell Tarly anxiously fingering an old book at the table near by. Arya and Sansa arrived first, joining the other’s around the fire. 

“Why were you talking to the Hound?” Sansa eyed her sister in confusion. 

Before Arya could speak, Bran spoke up. “They were companions.”

Jon entered the room, shutting the door behind himself. He saw Sansa staring at Arya in disbelief and braced himself for whatever fury she was unleashing. 

“What do you mean _companions_? How did you come to be in the company of _the Hound_?” Sansa’s look was sharp and incredulous towards her younger sister. Her words dripped with distaste. Arya glared, the Hound was dead.

“He protected her when she escaped King’s Landing,” Jon interjected, coming to stand next to them.

Sansa couldn’t imagine the Hound protecting anyone. She had remembered him saying he’d protect her and get her home, but he had been drunk and yelled at her that night the Blackwater burned. A small part of her wondered how different things would have been if she would have gone with him. She shook the notion from her head. 

“She was at the Red Wedding. She went to the Eyrie, only three days after Aunt Lyssa was murdered,” Bran offered quietly.

“I was still there with Littlefinger…” Sansa couldn’t believe it, her sister had been so close and _the Hound_ was the one that had gotten her there. She cursed Baelish for killing her Aunt, no matter how touched the woman was.

“They never let us through the gate… We started traveling back. If we wouldn’t have run into Brienne, we probably would have booked passage to Essos; we both wanted to go there,” Arya said wistfully, staring into the fire.

“Brienne?”

“She almost killed him,” Arya turned to her sister with a twisted expression that Sansa wasn’t sure was sadness or amusement. “I left him for dead, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“He was on your list,” Bran said in passing.

“He was, and he wasn’t. He had risked his life—or I _thought_ had given his life—to protect me. I was a confused little girl,” she chided herself. Desperate to move the attention from herself, she turned to her brother. “That’s not the reason we’re all here though, is it, Bran?”

They all turned to Bran and Samwell, and Sansa made a mental note to inquire further about her sister’s adventures with the Hound.

“Jon, there’s something you need to know,” Sam offered nervously, picking at the edge of the book he held. “It’s about your mother. And your father.”

  

* * *

  

Sandor stepped out into the brisk air, feeling it sting his warm cheeks. No one was outside, he noted thankfully as he leaned heavily against a fence, watching a few errant flakes fall lazily from the sky. 

He was surprised at his behavior, not realizing how many pent up feelings and words had gone unspoken over the years. He couldn’t look at her anymore. Couldn’t talk to her. How could he? She’d wanted him dead, and now she sat in front of him, talking as though nothing had happened. Coming here had been a mistake, he thought. 

His ears twitched at the sound of crunching snow to his side and sighed, really not looking to talk to anyone. Tipping back the cup in his hand and emptying it down his throat, he turned to the visitor and was surprised to see the Lady of Winterfell. 

Sandor hadn’t seen or talked to her since his embarrassing display in King’s Landing all those years ago. He had truly wanted to save her, but with time to reflect, his method had been extremely flawed. 

“Little bird…” 

Sansa came to stand in front of him, her hands clasped together diplomatically.

“It’s good to see you alive,” she said softly.

He looked up from his wine, studying her in the dim light. She was not the same person at all—she was a woman now, her face hard with years of experience. He wondered if she would still sing her songs. 

“I heard about you and my sister.” Her piercing blue eyes were clear in the moon’s light. She definitely would not sing her songs anymore, if what he saw in her eyes was anything to believe.

_Another fucking reminder._ He looked at her expectantly, too deep in his cups to have any real homecoming with the little bird at this moment. His good eyebrow raised in question. 

“Aye, what of it?”

“I.. Thank you,” she uttered quietly, wringing her hands together. “If it wasn’t for you, she likely would not be here now.”

“She’s strong, little bird. Broke out of her cage a long time ago,” he poured more wine into his cup, tipping it back almost immediately, as though to get thoughts of the little wolf out of his head. 

That wasn’t quite what Sansa was expecting, but recalling her conversations with him all those years ago, they had been generally curt and to the point. She anxiously ran her hands over a crease in her dress. 

“Well, know that you are welcome in Winterfell. For your services to the Stark family, I’ve seen to it that you have accommodations in the Great Keep instead of the barracks outside our walls,” she concluded, waiting patiently for a response. 

Did she want a play by play of his time with the younger Stark? All he wanted was to be away from the Stark girls right now. 

“Run along, little bird. Before you catch a cold,” he said gruffly, perhaps a bit too harshly, but in his state, he couldn’t tell. 

Sansa frowned at him for a moment. “Good night, ser,” she nodded and walked off, her shoulders squared. _Not a fucking ser._

_Seven hells._ At least with a room, he’d have a lock on his fucking door.

  

* * *

 

There was a quiet knock on the door. If it had been any quieter, it may have gone unnoticed. The sword being polished was set down on the sturdy oak table, boots thudding against the warm stones underfoot. With a sigh, the door creaked opened.

“What do you want?”

She huffed, annoyed at even needing a reason to be there. “Can I come in? I want to talk a bit more.” 

Sharp, calculated eyes considered her, years of unspoken angst bubbling to the surface. With a loud, perturbed exhale, she was allowed in the room where she walked to the middle before turning back and wringing her hands almost anxiously. 

“What happened to you?”


	2. veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon contemplates his next move. Arya fights with her demons. Sansa tries to help both.

 

**02\. veil.**

 

 _Innocence gone, never take friendship personal_  
_If you can't hold yourself together_  
_Why should I hold you now?_  
_In a sense gone, never take friendship personal_  
_If you can't hold yourself together  
_ _Why should I hold you now?_

**[\- Never Take Friendship Personal, Anberlin](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

 

* * *

 

Jon sat quietly in his chambers, staring at the fire, rubbing his beard in thought. The news of his true parents still had him reeling and he'd kept it from Dany so far. He was sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed that he was acting strangely around her. There was a knock at his door. 

“Sansa..” Jon let her in, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

“What are you going to do?” she asked pointedly. 

He walked to the window and opened it, letting the brisk air wash over his face. With a deep sigh, he turned back to her.

“I have to tell her,” he said quietly, his honor pushing him towards the truth. Even if he wasn’t truly Ned Stark’s son, he had the damnable honor of him.

“Yes,” she agreed to Jon’s surprise. “ _After_ the war is over.”

“I can’t lie to her.”

Sansa sighed, exasperated. “Jon, you’re not _lying_ to her! You’re just omitting a detail that will only cause a divide between you and one of our _needed_ allies.”

“But what if she finds out?”

“Who’s going to tell her? Only Arya, Bran, Sam, and myself know and none of us are going to say anything. And _you_ need to focus on rallying our banner men behind her, especially once the rest of her forces join from the South.”

“What of the Northern lords? If they find out I’m not a true heir, they’ll abandon our cause.”

“Just because you’re not Ned Stark’s son doesn’t mean you're not a Stark. Aunt Lyanna was just as much of a Stark as father was. You need to keep it to yourself right now. We need to focus on the Long Night coming.”

She walked over to him, her dress rustling with her movements. Standing in front of him, she took his hands in hers and looked at him, clear blue eyes pleading. 

“Promise me, Jon,” she implored.

 

* * *

Arya moved with precision, ducking and sliding past Brienne as they sparred. 

“You’re a fucking coward,” Sandor growled from his place along the edge of the courtyard where he’d been watching them for some time. He honestly didn’t think she was a coward, and had been quite taken by her abilities, but he always felt she could be knocked down a peg or two. Maybe three.

It was the first words he’d said to her since the night he’d arrived, otherwise he had avoided her. Arya glanced over at him, dodging Brienne’s swing and almost losing her footing. She heard him chuckle vindictively from behind her. 

“Don’t pull out your little _Needle_ if you’re not going to use it,” he poked, intent on riling her up. 

“I’ll have Brienne kick your ass again, dog,” she growled effortlessly as she met Brienne’s swing, the steel clanging together loudly before she stepped away, sword pointed towards the tall woman. 

“That wasn’t a fair fight and you know it,” he grumbled, instinctively rubbing his shoulder where the scar remained from the bite. His right leg throbbed a bit in the cold. The words stung more than the scars; he’d risked everything protecting that girl, going so far as to practically die for her, and this was how she treated him.

Arya paused her sparring and looked over at the man glaring at her. Brienne stepped back. How dare he come here and expect things to just continue like nothing had happened to them? She had lost her final protector in Westeros; he had done stupid things and gotten himself hurt—he’d betrayed her. She seethed, walking up to him with her sword pointed directly at his chest.

“Do you want to fight _me_ , then? Would that make it _fair_?” She pressed the sword lightly to his chest, right over his heart, staring at him dangerously.

‘ _That’s where the heart is.’_

“Wouldn’t be fair to you, little wolf,” he cautioned. 

Arya’s eyes narrowed at the nickname. Who was he to give her a nickname like he was a long lost friend picking up where they’d left off? He’d abandoned her, too stupid to take care of himself. She spun on her heel and walked across the yard.

“Let’s go.” 

Sandor watched her turn back, facing him with righteous indignation, her sword behind her back, her legs placed in stance, ready for a fight. She looked deadly, a seething five foot and six inches of quiet anger, ready to pounce on him at any moment. He laughed to himself, wondering how she had gotten to this point and the mere fact that this was even happening right now. 

“ _Now._ ”

Brienne and Podrick watched from the side of the yard, both spectators in a long awaited reunion of force. Sandor moved towards the training swords, ready to see what she was made of.

“No. Real steel.”

“Lady Arya—” Brienne tried to interject.

“Brienne. I’ll do as I so please,” she spat, her eyes not leaving the scarred man approaching her with his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

The yard was quiet save for the scrape of metal as Sandor removed his sword from its sheath. It felt eerily familiar except they weren’t in the mountains—the four of them, all staring each other down with little trust between any of them. This time, however, he was protecting his pride, not the girl he began circling, gauging her movements. He’d watched her enough over the last couple days to understand her game: stay back, sword hidden so her intentions weren’t known, arrogant smirk plastered on her little round face, waiting for you to make the move. 

He’d give her what she wanted. 

With a large step, he approached her, cutting his sword across her chest, but she had leaned back as though she knew exactly where it would land. Coming around his side, she stood there again, frustratingly calm. His nostrils flared as he grit his teeth, stepping towards her once more and swinging the sword high, expecting her to block, but she side stepped him, spinning and placing the side of her sword firmly against his back with a _thwat!_

He cursed under his breath, quickly turning to swing again, meeting her sword with more resistance than he expected from someone of her size with such a small weapon. Arya twisted the sword in her hand, flippantly, and met his next move with a _clang-clang_ against both sides of his blade, throwing him off. She stared at him, her arm an extension of her sword as she pointed it towards him steadily.

Sandor stared her down, Needle only inches from his face. Her eyebrow cocked ever so slightly, a twitch at the corner of her lips. 

“You think a few fancy twirls will work?” he spat, his breath only slightly labored. 

“Has so far,” she recalled, pulling her sword from his face with a twist before it was behind her back again. 

As far as Arya was concerned, she was beating him and that made her feel good. She’d always be quicker than him, what with his size and the lameness in his right leg. Her advantage over Westerosi fighters was two fold: most men fought right handed and she didn’t, and her style was focused on the water-dancing she’d learned as a child from Syrio and improved upon while in Braavos, which was foreign to most fighters here. 

She dodged another one of his attacks, but as she slid under his arm, his leg flew out, almost knocking himself over in an effort to trip her. Arya rolled and fell to the ground and laid there for a second, her chest heaving up and down, the cool clouds of her breath heavy in front of her. 

“Wolf-bitch gonna go down that easily?” She heard him mock.

With a growl, she rolled backwards, her legs going over her body as her hands came down to the ground in a crouch. She jumped to her feet, sword pointed firmly at him as she caught her breath.

“Come on girl, don’t make me beg,” he teased as she glared at him. 

Arya swung her sword around, the reverberations of his block only fueling her motion as she spun around him to knock into his leg. But she was met with his sword again, to her surprise. 

He clicked his teeth at her in disappointment, and she swung again, meeting his sword roughly, almost knocking it out of her hand. 

“Getting sloppy, little wolf,” he chided.

She could tell he was getting tired as well. All she had to do was outlast him, which wouldn’t be hard. With arms tucked behind her again, she waited for him to make the next move. 

A guttural battle cry echoed off the stone buildings as he swung, ready to finish her off. She met his sword with force, and they danced across the snowy courtyard, a flurry of swings and blocks until she parried his swing. They glared at each other, unspoken anger in both of their eyes—the other was to blame, wholly. Sandor grabbed her blade with a gloved hand, ripping it out from her grip and tossing it aside. 

Her eyes went wide as he thrusted his sword towards her, knowing she’d dodge it. She did as he expected, but not before landing a blow with her fist to his side. He spun to face her, panting as he watched her prepare for his next move. 

“Can’t have you fight a big ol’ dog with no sword,” he considered, tossing his own sword in the direction of hers, pulling his gloves off, literally and metaphorically. 

Sandor lunged at her, swinging his fist for her head and getting air as she ducked, getting a jab into his hip before moving out of his way before he could contact her. She bounced lightly on her feet, arms still behind her as she watched his movements. He came at her again with an upper cut and she dodged to the side, her hair flicking at his fingers like a mosquito in summer before turning and kicking the back of his knee. 

But he caught her foot, stared at her for what felt like an eternity but was really just milliseconds, and heaved her foot up, knocking her to her back roughly. The air burst from her lungs as she hit the cold ground for the second time. She would not be defeated. Not by him. 

She pulled herself to her feet, without her usual gusto and just stared at him, chest heaving as her breath fogged in front of her.

All she really wanted to do was punch him in the face. Yell at him for giving up, for leaving her in the middle of nowhere with no one, for opening up to her and letting her grow fond of his company and then being a big idiot and losing to a woman. So much for being one of the most feared fighters in the Seven Kingdoms—he was just a lame old dog barking loudly to cover up how incapable he was now. 

Abandoning her normal method of waiting for him to attack, she ran towards him—straight at him—which he wasn’t expecting. He could see the look on her face, the anger, the disappointment, bubbling just under the surface as she closed in on him. His own resentment faltered as she made contact with his stomach, repeatedly, until he wrapped his arms around her tightly to stop her. She pushed against him, but he didn’t let her go. Arya struggled to free herself, her arms trapped between their bodies.

“Let me go!” She thrashed to no avail. 

“Calm down, wolf girl,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. His voice was gruff but soft, unexpectedly so given his strong grip around her shoulders. 

She felt a sting on her cheek as an errant, betraying tear escaped her wet eyes. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pushed roughly away from him, looking up at him briefly with fire in her eyes before picking up her sword and quickly leaving the training yard. 

Brienne and Podrick shared a glance, both equally confused about what happened, and watched as Sandor picked up his sword and left the opposite way the wolf had.

From the gallery above, Sansa had watched the whole fight unfold. She could see there was an anger and resentment between them but also an underlying connection, which hadn’t been evident in her conversations with either of them the nights before. They had cared for each other before things went sour, she could see that now. What hadn’t been appropriate then was playing out now in front of her, the misery of their goodbye hindering their reconnection. She made a note to chat with her sister after the council meeting.

 

* * *

The war room was dimly lit despite it being midday. Candles danced all around the edges of the room, several on the map on the table as well. The council stood around the table, looking at the stones that represented the various forces: Winterfell and the smaller factions of the North, Wildling, Knights of the Vale, Unsullied, Dothraki, Lannister and the White Walkers. 

Jon stood near the top of the table where Eastwatch would be, where they had breached the Wall. Next to him stood Daenerys and Tyrion, with Sansa, Jorah, Davos, Varys and Missandei around the rest of the table.

“Until the Unsullied and Dothraki forces make it North, we don’t have hardly enough to defend Winterfell,” Jon resigned, looking over the map. 

“We don’t have time to wait for them to get here,” Sansa warned. “Can’t the dragons help? Take out some of their forces from behind?” She moved the two dragon stones north of the White Walkers. 

“We could surprise them with an attack like that, might buy us some time,” Davos conceded.

“And lose another dragon?” Daenerys interjected. 

“What’s the point of them being here if we aren’t able to make use of them?” Sansa argued, pointedly staring at the blonde woman. 

“That would involve the Queen leaving with Drogon,” Tyrion chimed in. “I don’t think it’s safe for her to leave until we have a better sense of what we’re dealing with.” 

“And wait for them to knock on our door?” Sansa snapped, frustrated. 

“Perhaps we could send a ranging party around, back to Eastwatch, and have them send a raven with more details,” Jorah suggested. 

“We’d need fast riders. No more than two,” Jon mused, moving the dragons back to Winterfell and sending one of their stones back to Eastwatch. 

“That’s going to take too long!” Sansa insisted, putting her hands on the table. “And we don’t know where they are, they could be heading West towards Queenscrown or South to Last Hearth.”

“Lady Sansa makes a compelling argument,” Varys acknowledged. “Perhaps her brother could be of some help. The one who has The Sight?”

“Of course,” Tyrion remembered, “Sansa you said he had visions? Could he tell us where their forces are?”

“I don’t see why not,” she confessed. 

“Good, then it’s settled for now,” Jon stated, moving the stones back to their original places. “Sansa, let me know what Bran says.” 

He nodded towards the door. “I’d like to speak with the Queen alone, if you all wouldn’t mind.”

Sansa shot him a surprised look, narrowing her eyes. _Don’t._

“That’ll be all. Thank you,” he said definitively. 

The room began clearing, with Sansa being the last one out. She hung by the door for a moment, watching as Jon moved closer to Daenerys. With a sigh, she shut the door.

* * *

She found Arya in her chambers, with the door open, knowing she expected her—her sister never did anything without reason now. Like leaving her faces in a place Sansa could find them. She briefly wondered if Jon knew about them.

But the display she'd watched unfold in the courtyard earlier seemed so unlike the Arya she had begun to consider her new sister. It was angry and clumsy, too focused on some unspoken past between her and the man she sparred. 

“Lady Sansa,” Arya spoke softly, not getting up from her spot at the table as she cleaned Needle. 

“You lied to me the other night,” Sansa said pointedly, coming to stand at the table beside her sister. 

“How do you figure?” The slight squeak of the cloth against the steel made Sansa shiver. 

“You said the Hound—”

“The Hound is dead.” She didn’t look up.

Sansa sighed, exasperated and only sort of missing not having to deal with her siblings and their idiosyncrasies. 

“You know what I mean. You told me he just tried to get you to family, but that little display in the yard earlier. What was that?”

Arya rubbed the cloth harder on the steel, as though it would rub all her problems away. 

“Why were you watching?” She still didn’t look up.

“What do you mean—I was walking by and saw you with a sword to his chest. Arya!” Sansa put her hand on her sister’s forearm, halting her cleaning. “Look at me.”

Arya sat still for a moment, glaring at the hand on her arm, wondering what it would feel like to break those pretty little fingers. Who was Sansa to pry? What business of it was hers? She knew Sansa wouldn’t leave her alone about it until she told her. With an annoyed sigh she sat the sword on the table slowly, watching as Sansa moved away from her. Standing from the chair, she fixed her gaze on her pretty sister. 

“He kidnapped me. The man who had killed Mycah for your _beloved_ Joffrey—”

“I thought we were past that.”

Arya moved closer to her sister, staring her in the eye, squinting slightly. 

“He tried to get a ransom for me. From Robb at first, but we were too late. I stupidly tried to find mother and Robb and he saved me from the Freys. He was the only person I had. I still hated him and he didn't much care for me, but he protected me. He fed me. He taught me how to kill a man the right way.”

Sansa sucked in air as Arya came to stand directly in front of her. She reached out her hand, watching as Sansa flinched, and poked her in the chest. “‘That’s where the heart is. That’s how you kill a man.’ _That’s_ why I was pointing a sword at his chest.”

Arya turned away, walking towards the fire, her arms slack at her sides. 

“He was with me when I killed my first man. He helped me get Needle back from Lannister men who took us to Harrenhal to be tortured. We traveled together for _months_ and fell into a comfortable rhythm. After leaving the Eyrie, there was nowhere for him to take me but he still protected me. We thought about going East, neither of us had a reason to stay here.”

She picked up the fire iron and shifted the logs, watching the blaze flicker higher. “He told me about his brother, about how he got the scars—it was just like Littlefinger had said all those years ago at the Tourney in King’s Landing. He was so sad as he told me and he helped me realize we were both alone together.”

_‘You think you’re on your own.’_

Arya turned back to her sister, her eyes soft. 

“I had come to terms with his death. I was angry more than anything, but I didn't want him dead. I had taken him off my list, forgiven him for Mycah’s death. That’s when we came across Brienne. She tried to take me from him, he wanted to protect me from this stranger. But she beat him, knocking him off a mountain side. He begged me to kill him and I couldn't do it; I couldn't see someone else I cared about killed.”

Sansa frowned in sympathy. She thought she had a complicated relationship with the man, but it was nothing compared to this. _‘Someone else I cared about.’_

“And for him to just come back…” Arya shook her head, trying to figure it out. “I don't know. I'm still processing it. And he's not making it easy.”

“You both are horrible at communicating,” she offered with a small smirk. “He came here for you, I can tell.”

Arya turned to her, confused. 

“You were important to him. I’ve seen how he looks at you during dinners. Even watching you spar. He’s proud of you.”

Arya watched the fire lick the edges of the hearth, listening to the crackle of the kindling, letting her words sink in. 

“Brienne told me as much,” Sansa admitted, coming to stand next to her. “She said when she told him you were alive, he actually smiled— _him_ , smiling! Apparently he was intent on staying in King’s Landing to deal with his brother but decided to come here instead.”

Arya’s faced twisted in guilt. _The Mountain._

“He cares about you, Arya, as odd as that is for me to say. And I think you care about him. I won’t tell you how to handle it—what to do with those feelings—except to say it’s rare to find these days and you should maybe consider your pride before you talk to him again.”

Sansa squeezed her sister’s hand softly and saw herself out. The door closed quietly behind her and Arya sighed heavily before returning to cleaning her sword. 

 

* * *

 

“You’re a well read man,” Jon started as he stood with Tyrion and Sandor in the training yard, watching the fighters spar. 

“I’ll assume you’re talking about me,” Tyrion joked, looking over at Sandor, who just grumbled and turned back towards the yard. 

“Do you know anything about the Faceless Men?” Jon inquired as he watched Arya spar with Podrick. She was clearly going easy on him. 

“That seems an odd inquiry,” Tyrion noted aloud. “They are a religious cult of assassins in Braavos.”

Sandor’s ear pricked at the mention of Braavos. He remembered Arya wanting to go there to see a friend; he absently wondered if she ever made it there. 

“They have the ability to change faces, shape-shifting almost,” Tyrion continued. “They worship the Many-Faced God, but essentially that means death.”

“Death?” Jon frowned, looking down at him.

“Yes. If I recall correctly, they worship death,” Tyrion acknowledged bluntly. 

“What the fuck does ‘change faces’ mean?” Sandor asked gruffly, still listening to their conversation as he buried himself deeper into the furs over his shoulders. _Fuck this cold._

“It’s my understanding that through the use of potions and magic, they are able to take on the look of another person. They can’t, say, grow in height, but they can change their face, hair and other notable features to imitate another person. I assume to either get closer to their target, or go unnoticed as an assassin more generally,” Tyrion toed at the dirt, kicking a rock into a small pile of snow a few feet away. 

“How do they get the faces?” Jon continued, a worrying expression finding its way onto his face. 

Tyrion looked up at him, raising his eyebrow. “Well… I suppose they slice the faces off of dead people.” 

Sandor caught Arya’s eye as she dodged Podrick’s advance, the young man falling to the ground behind her. He wasn’t sure if it was the chill in the air, or the look she gave him, but a shiver ran through him at that moment.


	3. tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little birds might get burnt when they seek fire. Jaime is found along the Kingsroad. Arya has a late night conversation.

 

**03\. tension.**

 

_You could be empty_  
_And I can be right here empty with you_  
_Or you could be hollow,_  
_And I can be right here hollow with you_  
_If you want to say goodbye to everything_  
_I could say goodbye too  
_ _I can be right here empty with you_

**[ _-Empty With You, The Used_ ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

 

_Snow fell lazily to the ground, a sight not seen in the capital city in a very long time. It was dreary, almost washed in blue instead of the typical warm light that bathed King’s Landing._

_The winds had picked up, bringing more snow into the narrow corridors of Flea Bottom. People huddled together, trying to stay warm around makeshift fires in the streets, shivering and thin. Most of them would not make it to the next year._

_From above, King’s Landing was dotted heavily along the outer walls with soldiers. They huddled close to fires, just like the poor folk, drinking ale and singing songs of warmer days. Most of them would not make it to the next year._

_At a window in the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister stood watching the snow angrily, as though it had been responsible for the death of each of her children. She ran her hand over her stomach with a sigh but was pulled from her thoughts when a large black bird landed on the balcony, squawking loudly._

_Sneering at the animal, she turned back to the man who stood awaiting orders from his Queen._

_“We hold here. I will not send our men North to die and let the city fall under siege by that foreign whore,” she directed. “My brother has abandoned his post, his family. He’s as good as dead to me now, let him go North to be devoured.”_

_With a shrill squawk, the bird flew away._

 

* * *

 

Sansa waited patiently at her brother’s side in the Godswood, fingering a bright red leaf that had fallen from the heart tree. Fresh snow had fallen the night before and the forest was quiet, eerily so, and completely untouched save for the little birds that hopped along the icy top layer in search of seeds. 

She watched him, his face hollow, his eyes white. She worried about him and what toll this was taking on him. But she couldn’t deny the value it brought them in such dire circumstances. 

Absently, she tore the leaf into shreds and watched them fall to the snow at her feet. 

“Sansa… It’s Cersei.”

Bran had returned from a vision and looked worried.

“Doesn’t look like good news,” she murmured.

“We need to find Jon.”

 

* * *

 

The council stood around the map, having gathered in the war room at the behest of Sansa with word from Bran.

“Here’s hoping that the army of the dead has decided to go West first,” Tyrion mused. “Would buy us time to get the rest of the forces here.”

The wood door creaked open and Sansa pushed Bran in, both with solemn looks on their face. She moved Bran next to Jon, and stood at his other side. Jon looked at him expectantly. 

“Cersei isn’t sending Lannister forces North,” Bran said, getting to the point. 

“What do you mean? I thought you said you convinced your sister,” Jon growled, turning to Tyrion.

“You were there, she said she would send her men North,” Tyrion asserted. 

“You actually took Cersei at her word?” 

The room turned to look at Sansa, who was visibly frustrated. She scolded herself for being preoccupied with the news of Jon’s lineage during the last council meeting.

“I’m sorry Lord Tyrion, but I figured you knew your sister better than that,” she continued. 

“She’s pregnant. She loves—loved—her children, I left feeling like she would do anything to protect the one in her belly,” Tyrion explained, eyeing Jon and Daenerys who were visibly frustrated. 

“What are we going to do without the help of the Lannister forces?” Jon sighed. “That’s easily thirty thousand men.”

“Jaime Lannister is riding North,” Bran interjected. 

Tyrion shot him a surprised, but hopeful look. 

“Maybe he was able to convince the armies to come with him,” Daenerys pondered as she paced the room. 

“Cersei’s men are loyal to the throne, no matter how stupid of a decision she makes,” Tyrion sighed. 

“Then what do we do?” Varys inquired, tucking his hands into his sleeves with a grimace on his face. 

Tyrion paced the other side of the room, brows knitted in thought. After a moment his eyes went wide as it dawned on him. “Wildfire…” he whispered. 

The group turned to the dwarf, questioning glances of varying degrees across their faces. 

“Wildfire hasn’t been around since the Mad King,” Jorah said, noting the look from Daenerys.

“We used it against Stannis’ fleet at the battle of the Blackwater. Cersei used it to blow up the Sept of Baelor,” Tyrion continued. “I don’t know if there is any left in King’s Landing, but it may be our only hope—getting it out of there and bringing it here.”

“But that could take months,” Sansa interjected with frustration.

“Then we’ll have to keep them at bay for that long,” Jon said solemnly.

“Varys, do you still have little birds in the capital?” Tyrion looked to the eunuch. 

“What sort of Master of Whisperers would I be if I didn’t keep a few everywhere. I’ll send word immediately and get them looking for it,” Varys nodded. 

“It might be our only chance,” Tyrion said quietly, looking down at the map on the table where the Night King’s stones rested.

 

* * *

She knew he wouldn’t be difficult to find. In the week since Jon’s party had returned from King’s Landing, he had spent most of his time here, sitting on the crates near the training yard, watching the Northerners spar, learn to shoot a bow, help the living stay alive in the coming war. He usually had a skin of wine with him, as well. 

Since their first conversation the night he arrived, she had left him alone, partly because of more pressing matters and partly because she’d hoped Arya would deal with it. But after a few days of watching him and her sister avoid each other’s looks and growing frustrated with how they couldn’t seem to just get over their differences, she felt the need to intervene like the good sister she was. 

As she expected, Sandor was sitting on one of the crates in the training yard, pulling his furs and cloak tight around his shoulders as he watched Brienne and Arya. He caught her eye as she came across the yard and even at her distance from him, could see him curse under his breath. 

Sansa sat down next to him, fussing with the folds of her dress as he took a drink of the wine. To her surprise, he held it out to her and she raised a polite hand in decline. 

“What’s the little bird doing out in the cold?” His voice was low and gruff. 

She wrinkled her nose, looking over at him. “I’m no longer a little bird, you’re no longer a Hound.”

Sandor looked over at her, studying her face as she watched him. Under the thick beard, she swore she saw the smallest hint of a smile. His eyes looked warmer than they had when he used to spit mean things her way in an attempt to frighten her. In his own way, he truly was preparing her for life outside of her gilded cage. 

“Besides, I think I’m far better suited for this weather than you,” she noted with a pretty smile, nodding to his gloved hands clenching his cloak close. 

“Aye, I belong in the South.”

Sansa turned her gaze to her sister as she moved fluidly across the yard, dodging Brienne with a gracefulness she didn’t think her sister was capable of possessing. 

“Why _are_ you here, Clegane? Lord Tyrion tells me you had some unfinished business with your brother that you left behind. Why?” She turned back to him, her eyes piercing. 

Sandor quickly averted his eyes as he tipped the skin back, focusing his attention on the archers’ practice rather than the two women sparing closest to them. 

“The Imp has a big mouth for a man of his size,” he grumbled. 

Sansa frowned, turning her attention to her leather boots that barely touched the ground from her place on the crate. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the clang of swords and the thump of arrows hitting straw targets. 

“I spent almost a year keeping that girl safe,” he said at last, after taking a deep swig of the wine. “And when I needed her most, she left me to suffer.”

Sandor looked at Arya, not more than a few yards from him. She was so capable, fierce and ambitious, but he still felt this gnawing desire to protect her. From what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe herself.

Sansa eyed him with sympathy. He really had softened over the years. 

“You still want to keep her safe,” she coaxed, catching Arya’s eye as she paused in sparring. The little wolf frowned at her, clearly annoyed she was talking with the man beside her. 

Sandor’s brows furrowed as he rolled the words around in his head. _Keep her safe._ They felt right in his mind, hell, even in his heart, but his gut told him differently. The little wolf would have none of it—she blamed him for his own almost-death. He supposed he could see it from that point, a young girl suddenly alone in the middle of nowhere with a woman she didn’t know trying to take her away. He had been the only one she trusted, and he’d failed her. 

He glowered, his shoulders going soft and had Sansa not been watching him, she may have missed the slight nod he gave as he watched her sister. 

“You came all this way for her,” she pushed further, a small smile on her lips. 

Sandor looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she stared at him intently, no longer afraid of the scars on his face. 

“Little bird needs to quit chirping so much,” he warned.

“And a dog needs to bark a bit more,” she countered. “You spent enough time with her to know her pride is going to get in the way of her saying anything first.”

He smiled to himself, recalling the indignant silence she had shown him after he knocked her off her feet when she tried to stab him in the gut. It had taken her two days of pointedly ignoring him before she finally talked to him, and only then to start a quarrel. 

“She cared about you—she’s just too stubborn to let some now-irrelevant detail go. She may be a great killer, but she has a ways to go when it comes to dealing with her emotions,” Sansa smirked, standing and fixing her skirts. 

She stood in front of him, blocking his view of the little wolf, her hand out pointing towards the skin of wine. He handed it to her and she took a deep drink, dabbing at the corner of her lips with her sleeve like the Lady she was before giving it back to him. 

“Talk to her.”

Sansa turned and left the courtyard, heading back inside hopeful this little spat between dog and wolf would end soon. As odd a match as it was in her eyes, she knew finding people who cared about you, who you could also trust, was a difficult thing these days and with the Long Night coming soon, they needed to be on the same side. 

* * *

Arya had tried her best to ignore the fact that her sister was sitting and talking with the man she had been pointedly ignoring for the past couple days as she sparred with Brienne. And she had tried to ignore the fact that he had been sitting there watching for the last hour. No, for the past two days. 

She didn’t know what they were talking about, but it wasn’t the weather, that much she could tell. She watched as Sansa stood up, standing in front of Sandor for a moment before leaving. 

The Lady of Winterfell headed back towards the Great Keep and Arya followed. She moved quietly past a few servants until, looking around and seeing no one, she grabbed Sansa’s arm roughly causing her to yelp.

“What did you say to him?” Arya demanded in a hushed tone. 

“Arya! Let go of me!” Sansa’s eyes were wide in fear, knowing her sister was capable of things she couldn’t imagine.

“Answer my question,” she growled, squeezing her sister’s wrist as she backed her against the wall. 

“You’re hurting me, Arya,” she whimpered. 

Arya’s eyes were dark, filled with anger and betrayal, as she stared at her sister. After a moment, one that Sansa wasn’t sure she’d be able to forget, Arya let her go and stepped back but only slightly. 

“I only wanted you to get over this stupid—”

“ _Stupid_!?” Arya hissed. “Who are you to say what is _stupid_? I told you that as your _sister,_ expecting your ear. Just because I tell you something doesn’t mean you can do with that information whatever you so please.”

Arya stepped further back from her sister, her face softening in the dim light.

“I thought I could help you,” Sansa said quietly, looking down at her sister with a combination of fear and sympathy. “He’s _alive_ , Arya. Isn’t that the important thing?”

Arya stood silently for a moment, her thick brows furrowed.

“You don’t know what I went through, don’t presume to think you do. Stay out of it,” Arya muttered as she turned away. “ _Lady_ Stark.”

 

* * *

Jaime had been riding for a day, as quickly as he could to avoid Cersei’s inevitable wrath. The snow had not stopped falling since he had left, a thick dusting covering the country side as he rode on. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get to Winterfell, if he’d even make it that far, but he knew he had to at least try. 

The disappointment he felt towards his sister and lover was insurmountable, but if Jon Snow could be believed—and based on his understanding of the bastard’s honor rivaling that of the late Ned Stark, he could—this army of the dead was a more pressing concern. Particularly since Cersei had tricked them into believing they were getting the aide of the tens of thousands of Lannister banner men. He had to warn them. 

He had rode fast and hard for a full day before he began hearing hooves behind him. Fearing that Cersei’s scouts had already caught up with him, he left the road and galloped deep into the woods. The snow had not reached the forest floor yet, making it a bit easier for him to conceal his trail.

Jaime stopped after awhile, eyes wide, ears pricked for noises. He didn’t hear the horses anymore, but his hand didn’t leave the hilt of his sword as he turned around in the forest, looking for signs of danger. His head whipped around as he heard a branch snap behind him, then his face grew soft.

“What the _hell_ are you doing in the middle of the woods?”

“Cersei send you to finish the job?” Jaime glowered as Bronn approached.

Bronn scoffed. “She would have had my head if she could have found me. When I heard you’d left King’s Landing and the men that sat around me drinking and whoring hadn’t gone, I knew you two had a falling out.” 

“Why not just stay in King’s Landing?” Jaime eyed him cautiously. 

“Because _you_ still owe me, pretty boy,” Bronn pointed at him, as he frowned. “I told you, I’m the only one that gets to kill you.”

Jaime removed his hand from his sword with a relieved sigh, not lost on the irony of his action. 

“Plus, I don’t want to be in that shit heap when the Dragon Queen finds out she’s been betrayed,” Bronn continued. “We’ve both seen what those dragons can do.”

“It’s a long, cold journey to Winterfell,” Jaime reminded.

“Aye, and you’ll pay for us to stay at every fucking inn between here and there,” Bronn eyed him before kicking his horse and turning back towards the road.

 

* * *

 

Late at night, after all the servants had finished their tasks and all that remained was the few guards on duty, Arya would walk the grounds. Seeing things in the dark helped her know them better in the daylight, and it was a chance to be away from the prying eyes of her family. The night was cold but there was no snow falling, only the clouds of air from her breath disappearing in front of her as she climbed the stairs to the inner wall of Winterfell to look out over the Wolfswood. 

It felt like she had the place to her self on night’s like these, when there wasn’t a sound at all. No wind whispering, no dogs howling, no noise from Wintertown. As she came to the top of the stairs though, she was surprised to see someone else standing in the spot she usually claimed for a few moments of contemplation. It didn’t take her more than an instant to realize who it was, and she considered turning around and heading back down the stairs, but this was _her_ home and she’d go where she wanted. 

Arya approached quietly, standing a bit away from him, but close enough that she could hear his low words.

“Wolf-girl…” 

The nickname gave her a type of chill that the Northern winds couldn’t. She remembered the first time he had called her that, as he grabbed her roughly in the dark forest as she escaped the Brotherhood. Despite being the same name, they couldn’t have been further from the same in context—one spat in revulsion of her Northern heritage and one said softly but loaded with heavy memories. 

She looked at him briefly, catching his glance before she turned back to watch the two dragons flying aimlessly over the Wolfswood, lit by the half moon. They stood in silence for awhile, watching the two large beasts begin to circle above them before landing in the Godswood. 

“There usually isn’t anyone up here,” Arya finally said, her tone frustratingly neutral.

“I know,” Sandor looked over at her. “That’s why you come up here.” 

So he had been watching her more than just in the training yard. She wasn’t sure if she was impressed or annoyed. 

“And why did you come up here?” 

“You know why,” he accused. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I did a good job of that for the last couple years, why change it now?”

Sandor sighed in frustration; he wanted to cuff her over the head for being an antagonistic brat. 

“I came to make sure you were okay,” he said quietly after a moment. 

“I’m okay,” Arya stated definitively. 

“Seven fucking hells. ‘I’m okay’?” He turned to her, brows knitted together in irritation. 

She turned quickly to look at him, fire in her eyes. “What else do you want? ‘Thank you so much for dying for me’?” Arya glared at him, venom in her words. 

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_. I was trying to _protect_ you,” he snapped, taking a step towards her. 

“Maybe if you would have protected _yourself_ , you wouldn’t have been beaten,” she countered, her jaw tight as she grit her teeth, glaring at him. 

“I got _bit_ because of the bounty on my head for killing those men at the inn. For your _precious_ Needle,” he nodded down to her hip, where she instinctively gripped the hilt. 

“And you lost to Brienne because you wouldn’t let me take care of you,” she scolded, turning back towards the woods, her voice wavering ever so slightly. 

“You left me to suffer. You couldn’t even give me the mercy of a painless death,” he growled.

He heard her breath hitch, watched her shoulders sag from their defiant position. 

“I couldn’t kill you,” she said quietly, her head down in shame.

_‘She cared about you.’_

Sandor sighed and moved closer to her, still giving her space, but wanting her to know he was _there_ and not dead.

“And I’m glad you didn’t, little wolf,” he said as softly as his gruff voice allowed. “As painful as it was, I’d have it no other way.”

Arya’s head shot up, her steel grey eyes a storm of emotion, her brow furrowed as she searched his eyes for his meaning. He held her gaze for a moment before turning back to the woods in the distance, growing uncomfortable with the emotional tension between them. She watched him for a moment longer, then turned to fix her gaze in the distance as well. 

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” she said softly after a moment. 

Without thinking about it, he reached over and ruffled her hair with a sigh. 

“Me too.”


	4. trust issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle Black gets some visitors. Jon and Brienne worry about Arya. Arya makes plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know I create playlists for all my stories? Click the link under the cover art to listen.

 

**04\. trust issues.**

_Diligently thinking of ways to get out of this god awful place_  
_I have learned that my fate is something I can't escape so_  
_Sound the alarm, what I've said from the start_  
_Is I'll never let your system break me down or tear me apart_  
_Don't be fooled, I was raised by the wolves_  
_Now the moon hangs in full, so you know I won't  
_ _Play by the rules_

[ **\- Raised by Wolves, Falling in Reverse** ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

“Seven _fucking_ hells, finally,” Bronn muttered under his breath as it clouded in front of him. 

Jaime and Bronn had ridden for two days with no inn in sight, having to sleep in the woods with little to keep them warm. Bronn, cursing himself now, hadn’t brought rations or heavier clothes in his rush to catch up with the one-handed Lannister. 

They crested a hill, coming out of the forest and saw a small inn not far from where they were. Lazy clouds of smoke moved towards the sky from the chimney and Bronn felt the blood in his fingertips start to warm.

The inn was modest in size, made of stone and covered in ivy. Bronn didn’t care if it was covered in pig shit, as long as there was a warm bed, a meal and with any luck, a mug or two of ale. He’d even settle for the piss the Northerners were prone to drinking. 

“You need to pull that hood high over your head and keep quiet,” Bronn directed Jaime as they dismounted. “If anyone sees you, who knows if your sister will be after you. I really don’t want to kill anyone on an empty stomach.”

Jaime gave him a sour look as he dismounted. “And what exactly would they do?”

“You really are out of touch with the common-folk aren’t you?” Bronn gave him an exasperated expression as they tied their horses up. “These people will take any chance they get to make a coin. Especially with this fucking storm coming.” He looked up at the snow falling with a frown.

“I really don’t think word would get back,” Jaime said defiantly.

“Just shut up, and let me do the talking,” Bronn directed as they walked up to the door.

 

* * *

Arya’s sword found the side of Sandor’s thigh with a firm _thwack!_ before she spun away from his swing. Behind her back the sword went, her expression stoic as she watched his feet, the muscles of his legs, his shoulders, all gauging where he would move next. 

Sandor huffed, his nostrils flared. “Would you fight like a normal fucking person?”

She barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “What even is normal?”

“None of this skirting the ring nonsense,” he nodded towards her stance. 

She smiled darkly. “You fight your way, I’ll fight my way. Won’t learn if we all fight the same.”

He lunged at her suddenly, swing his sword from the ground upwards towards her at an angle, and she ducked out of the way, but not before Sandor slid his leg under her foot, knocking her to the ground. With a huff she fell to the ground and he came to stand over her, pointing his sword down at her. 

_‘And a big fucking sword.’_

With a smirk he held out his hand, pulling her to her feet as she glared at him.

“I think that’s enough for today, little wolf,” he said as he smacked roughly at her back, dusting her off. 

Arya grunted her thanks, walking to place the practice sword back in its place. Looking up to the gallery, she noticed Jon watching her, impressed. She turned towards Sandor to comment on their session, but he had moved on to working with Podrick. With a small smile his direction, she left the training yard and went to join Jon in the gallery. 

“You may have met your match,” he joked as she approached. 

“I was going easy on him,” she countered, coming to stand next to him, watching the sparing below. 

“Sansa tells me things are on the mend between you two,” Jon looked over at her, a brotherly expression of concern on his face.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Sansa needs to stay out of other people’s business. She’s like Littlefinger reborn.” 

“You told me he had you captive for months,” he insisted, his brows knitted together. 

“And by the end of it, we were… companions,” she muttered, unsure if that was the right word to describe their turbulent relationship when she was a child. 

“You said you left him for dead. Doesn’t sound like something a companion would do,” Jon remarked, shooting her a father-like smirk. She missed her father.

“It was complicated. It’s still complicated.”

“I’m just trying to watch out for you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, I don’t want you to get hurt,” he commented, squeezing her gloved hand with his own softly. 

Arya looked down at the hand on hers. Part of her longed for the touch of family, but another part of her had grown so used to doing her own thing that it felt uncomfortable like a hot iron burning her skin. Looking down to the yard, she caught Sandor’s glance as Podrick hit the ground again. His eyes were warm and inviting but not judging, unlike her family. She figured he was the person who understood her best at this point, which she wouldn’t have expected a mere fortnight ago. 

“I can take care of myself, brother,” she smiled his direction. It didn’t matter if Jon was technically her cousin, he’d always be her big brother. 

She loved him, but was growing increasingly frustrated by the questions and glances of those around her. With everything she had been through—her time in Harrenhal, those brief moments with the Brotherhood, her travels with Sandor, her time in Braavos, even her return to Westeros—it was irritating that Jon and Sansa couldn’t see her as anymore than their little sister. That Brienne kept watch over her when she’d thought she had made it clear she wasn’t interested in her protection. 

Jon noted her quiet reflection. “With what’s coming, I just want to make sure my family is safe. That’s all.” 

He squeezed her hand again and dismissed himself, leaving her alone on the balcony, watching over the training yard. She watched Podrick and Sandor, noting the squire had improved over the last couple months. But more importantly, she watched Sandor, taking the chance to study his moves more, so perhaps next time it would be him on the ground.

 

* * *

“What do you mean someone was _up_ on the wall?” Edd looked in disbelief at the man in front of him. He had been Lord Commander of the Nightswatch for awhile now, reluctantly taking the role but very good at it.

“Patrol found two men, barely alive, walking atop the wall from the direction of Oakenshield,” the young man sputtered. 

Edd frowned, wondering if hostile Wildlings had raided the wall. The Nightwatch forces were getting too thin, even with the help of the friendly Wildlings who were manning a few of the castles. 

“Take me to them,” Edd sighed, following the man across the yard towards the cells. 

The cells were dark and cold, lit only by a couple of dim torches, so when Edd came down and saw two men hunched over in an array of furs, his suspicion felt confirmed. Until the red beard and crazed eyes of one Tormund Giantsbane caught the light.

“T’fuck you doing here?” Edd asked, walking towards the cell. He didn’t recognize the other man, so he wasn't keen on unlocking the door just yet.

“The dead are past the wall,” Tormund said solemnly, standing and walking towards the door. “We need to get word to Jon.”

“You were supposed to hold it,” Edd chided in passing, looking over at the other man who sat quietly, his arms resting on his knees.

“He’s okay, helped Jon and I up North,” Tormund nodded towards Beric, who smiled weakly at the Commander.

Edd unlocked the door and let the men out. Nothing could ever go smoothly, he thought bitterly to himself.

“Something warm would do nicely about now,” the Wildling suggested as they walked up the dark stairwell.

“Tormund? Beric?” 

The men turned as they walked across the yard towards the kitchen and saw the young man they’d shooed off to send a raven for help when they’d been surrounded by wights. 

“The hell you two doing here?” Gendry asked, coming from the smith’s tent towards them. 

“Could ask the same of you, boy,” Beric noted, a smile in his eye. “You were sent to Eastwatch.”

“I figured I’d help out here at Castle Black for the upcoming war, better smithy than Eastwatch,” Gendry noted, looking towards the still small blacksmith forge behind him. Nothing would ever be as good as Tobho’s shop. 

“Let’s get that raven to Jon, then you can tell me why Eastwatch isn’t there anymore,” Edd said sourly, nodding in the direction of the maester’s quarters. Gendry’s eyes widened in confusion.

“Something to eat first, maybe,” Tormund insisted, noting the expression.

 

* * *

Brienne had been invited to sit next to Sansa, where Arya normally sat, for dinner. It wasn’t the first time, the Tarth woman had noted, in the last week that Arya had chosen to not sit with her family. She picked at her meal out of respect for the honor of sitting at the head table, but was more intent on watching the younger Stark girl at the other end of the room. 

Her brows furrowed deeply as she watched Arya talk with the scarred man she had tried to protect her from years ago. Brienne had given her version of an apology when she saw him again in King’s Landing and thought she had let it go, knowing Arya could more than handle herself against any threat. Yet here she sat, not thrilled with the idea that the two of them were getting on again. It felt irrational; she had no reason to distrust Sandor, but she still kept a watchful eye on the young wolf. 

“Brienne? Did you hear me?” Sansa was looking at her, brows raised in question. 

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” Brienne shook her head and turned back to the woman she was sworn to protect. 

“I asked if you wouldn’t begin accompanying me to the council meetings. You are a strong, capable fighter, and I’d like you to be aware of what we’re planning,” Sansa repeated. 

“Of course, my Lady,” she nodded, and turned back towards Arya, frowning. 

“What is it, Brienne?”

Brienne was quiet for a moment, watching as Sandor smiled at some story Arya was telling. 

“I’m growing concerned for your sister.”

Sansa looked over to where her sister sat, sharing ale and stories with a man she’d have never expected, but had grown to appreciate the presence of for her sister’s benefit. 

“Arya doesn’t need protection, Brienne,” Sansa said politely.

“It’s just—we don’t know what that man has been up to, and he _had_ kidnapped her before,” Brienne continued. “I only want to think of her safety.”

Sansa smiled in her direction, but did not take her eyes off her younger sister. She couldn’t think of a safer situation for her sister to be in: within the walls of their home, warm food and ale in her belly, her own cunning mind and killing prowess, and the unspoken protection of one of the greatest swordsmen in Westeros. 

The Lady of Winterfell waved her hand dismissively. “She has it already.”

Brienne regarded her, a questioning look on her pale face.

“Clegane effectively pledged himself to her safety, much like you have. Think of it as one less person to worry about,” Sansa suggested, taking a sip of her wine. 

Brienne didn’t like that. She was sworn to protect both of Catelyn Stark’s children, even to the point where she thought she had killed the man sitting at the end of the hall. Clegane had said he wouldn’t protect the girl anymore, she took him at his word. Though perhaps she shouldn’t have, she wondered, considering his less than honorable tactics in trying to defeat her. Maybe he was just doing what he had to in an effort to protect the younger Stark, much like she had when she bit part of his ear off and began punching him ruthlessly. She wondered if there was honor in the dishonorable actions of a sworn oath.

Not wanting to disobey an order from her Lady, she nodded and turned back to her meal, silent for the rest of it.

 

* * *

_The snow moved as though it was a tsunami wave, icy and foggy as it spun in the air. Anyone who knew what was coming would surely run the other way, but when the Wildlings who had settled in the abandoned village of Queenscrown saw the approaching storm, they simply closed the shutters and doors, hoping for a quick storm._

_Overhead, a flock of ravens moved in front of the storm, squawking loudly and flapping their wings desperately. They swooped low before the snowy squall, and watched as the army of the dead slowly trudged across the thickening powder on the ground. Looking up, the ravens noticed the large form of a dragon emerge from the clouds, eyes ice blue. In an instant the birds scattered with a shriek, as the Night King looked down at them angrily._

_The night would not come as quickly as some of the Wildlings would beg for, just moments later._

 

* * *

The clatter of practice swords echoed off the stone walls, accompanied by mumbled cursing and an exasperated sigh. 

“Watch where you’re going, the guards are going to hear us,” Arya said quietly, glaring at him, though she was sure he couldn’t see her. 

“Why in seven hells are we creeping around instead of just walking through the fucking courtyard?” Sandor growled as he rubbed his shin. 

Arya had stopped to help him pick up the swords, the faint moonlight caught on the side of her face as she looked at him. 

“Because Brienne has started getting nosey and I don’t need word getting back to Sansa that I’m out in the middle of the night with you,” she explained, as though it were obvious.

“What does it matter?” 

“Despite being the Lady of Winterfell now, she’s still my sister and insists on meddling in my affairs,” she pointedly looked at the scarred man in front of her, though she was sure he couldn’t see her. He knew all too well what she meant.

“Why _are_ we out here?” Sandor squinted, trying to see her in the low light. 

She shrugged, still unsure if she wanted to tell him, before realizing he couldn’t see her. Her time blind while in Braavos had made her more aware than the average person when it came to dim situations. Moving from the swords, they made their way towards the Godswood, where the dragons slept. 

The moonlight was bright in the clearing where the heart tree stood, tangling up into the sky with it’s blood red leaves glistening with frost. In the forest behind the heart tree, Arya could make out the forms of the two dragons. Drogon’s eyes were fiery and focused on her as she stood near the frozen pond. 

“I wonder what it’s like to ride one of them,” she pondered quietly.

“Cold. Windy. Uncomfortable. Wouldn’t recommend it,” Sandor mused, remembering when Daenerys saved them. 

Arya looked over at him, one of her thick brows raised in question. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve been on the fucking thing.” 

He picked up a small rock near the pond’s edge and was about to throw it when he thought better. 

“The Dragon Queen had to save our asses north of the Wall. Stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done,” he grumbled, recalling the vision in the flames. He was sure it was just Thoros’ magic at work.

Arya looked at him with bemusement before her gaze turned dark as she looked up at the heart tree. There was a part of her that wanted to stay here forever. It had taken her so long to finally get back home that the idea of ever leaving had once seemed so far away. But being reunited with Sandor had shaken her up, tipped her upside down and made her realize there were still people who needed to pay for the crimes committed against her family. 

“I’m not staying in Winterfell,” she said quietly, after some time.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m useless here, a lone wolf—no match for the battle that will inevitably come. My talents are better used… elsewhere,” she said cooly, fingering the hilt of Needle.

“ _Where_.” Sandor glowered at her suspiciously, noting she was still as much a trouble seeker as always. 

Arya looked up at him, not having to tilt her head back quite as far these days, and regarded him for a moment. In the pale moonlight she looked menacing, making his skin crawl a bit. 

“To finish my list.”

“That fucking list,” he scoffed, finally tossing the stone onto the ice encrusted pond, watching it skitter to a stop half way across. “Who’ve you got left, girl?” 

“Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr—”

“Eaten by a dead polar bear,” he interrupted flatly, no emotion to the ridiculous words he spoke. 

Arya twitched, only slightly, mostly for the name being taken from her.

“The Red Woman, Illyn Payne—”

“Blew up in the Sept of Baylor, I heard.”

“That’s where I’m going. Cersei and The Mountain are still on the list as well,” she glanced over at him, gauging his reaction. 

Sandor barked a curt laugh at the thought of Arya killing that _thing_ that was his brother. The idea of her waltzing into King’s Landing and sticking that _needle_ through his brother sounded ridiculous. Something he wouldn’t mind seeing her attempt, if he was being honest with himself.

“You think you’re just going to walk up to Cersei and stick that thing in her eye,” he gestured towards Needle in a poking motion, mimicking the little sword.

“I have my ways.” 

He wanted to smack the arrogant look off her face. Some things didn’t change.

“When?” The idea that she would be leaving so soon after they had been reunited made his stomach twist uncomfortably. 

Arya toed the snow, making circles in it with her boot. 

“Soon.” 

“Does anyone know?”

“Only you,” she said with a small smile, looking over at him. 

Their reunion was still very fresh and it took everything in him to not tell her he was most definitely going with her. There were parts of her that were still very much the same, but there was also a lot of her that he didn’t know or understand, which intrigued him. 

“You planning on telling anyone?” He asked finally, looking over at her. She seemed so small in the moonlight, huddled under a mountain of fur and wool. 

Arya chewed on her lip in silence for a moment. Telling anyone else would just get her locked in her chambers until Winter was over. There was no way Jon or Sansa, hell even Brienne, would allow her to leave now. 

“No,” she said quietly.


	5. goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riders leave Castle Black. Arya plots and lies to her sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very Arya heavy chapter.

 

**05\. goodbyes.**

 

_My head is haunting me and my heart feels like a ghost_  
_I need to feel something, cause I'm still so far from home_  
_Cross your heart and hope to die  
_ _Promise me you'll never leave my side_

_Show me what I can't see when the spark in my eyes is gone_  
_You got me on my knees, I'm your one man cult_  
_Cross my heart and hope to die  
_ _Promise you I'll never leave your side_

**[ _\- Follow You, Bring Me The Horizon_ ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

Tormund tightened the straps on his horse, squinting against the snow fall. It would be a long trip to Winterfell but he needed to get back to check on his Wildling brethren. With any luck, it wouldn’t be more than a week’s journey. He checked his provisions once again and was just about to hoist himself into the saddle when he heard someone approach him.

“What are you doing, boy?” Tormund eyed the young man suspiciously as he walked forward with a horse. 

“I’m going with you. Winterfell needs the help more than Castle Black, and with any luck, I have a friend there who I’d like to see again before we all freeze,” Gendry said resolutely, as though he was expecting an argument from the ginger-haired Wildling. 

Tormund eyed him with a grin. “Do you have a beauty in Winterfell as well, lad?” He elbowed him in the side with a chuckle. 

“It’s not like that,” Gendry said, moving away from the Wildling.

“Well the company will be good—if nothing else, I’ll have something to eat if hunting’s bad and my rations run out,” Tormund looked over at him, eyes wide, a toothy grin still plastered across his face. 

The smith frowned at him as he mounted his horse. “You’re _not_ going to eat me.”

“No boy, I’m no Then.”

Gendry had no idea what he was talking about, which made Tormund bellow in laughter at the cross expression on the young man’s face. “You are not a traveled man, are you?”

“Heading south?” Beric called over, approaching through the snow. 

“Aye—you staying up here? You’ll freeze your balls off,” Tormund joked then considered it. “Perhaps not with that fire sword of yours,” he waggled his brows.

Beric chuckled heartily, “Aye, I’ll be just fine. Safe journey to you both.”

They nodded at each other and Tormund hooked his left foot into the stirrup and threw his leg over. With a kick, they made their way towards the gate, where the sentries yelled out to each other and it opened with a groan. 

Before them was only white as far as the eye could see. Tormund looked over at Gendry, who was pulling his hood tight around his face. With a grin, he kicked his horse and trotted down the pathway, the smith following in close pursuit.

 

* * *

There was a soft knock on the door—a few quiet, quick raps. It had to be past midnight, Sandor figured; he had been having a hard time getting to sleep and was finally about to drift off. He hoped he had just imagined the knock and laid there, watching the doorway through half-lidded eyes. A low fire still crackled in the hearth across the room, and a stub of a candle was lit on the table next to his bed. Another few raps on the door came, this time a bit more urgent and louder. 

With a grumble, he got out of bed, clad in just a pair of breeches and padded across the warm stones to the door. 

“What?” he growled through the door. 

“Let me in,” came a hushed voice, but one he’d recognize anywhere. 

Sandor sighed, rolling his eyes and undid the bolt of the door, opening it slightly but Arya pushed past him into the room. 

“Shut the door,” she ordered, turning back to him and looking over his broad, scarred chest as she realized he was half naked. “Er, sorry about the wake up call.” She wasn’t, she knew what she was doing, her reason for being here, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself.

“Don’t much matter, wasn’t asleep anyway,” he remarked. “What do you want, wolf-girl?” 

“Sansa gave you a good room—was always my favorite to hide in when I was in trouble,” she remembered fondly, knowing her sister did it on purpose. “Father always knew I was in here, hiding under the bed.” 

Arya sat on the edge of his bed, running her fingers over the furs with a distant smile on her face. She was having a hard time reconciling her longing to stay in Winterfell with the desire to exact final vengeance to the select few still on her list. With furrowed brows, she looked up at the man who had once been on her list, who watched her with a combination of weariness and exasperation.

“Day after next, before first light,” she stated, meeting his gaze.

Sandor squinted at her, his half-asleep brain working slowly through what she was saying. It seemed to him, in his mental state, that she was telling him so he could prepare. He knew she wouldn’t admit that she needed or wanted help, but in her own way was asking for it right now. Why else was he the only one who knew about her plans, and the one she was coming to in the middle of the night? 

Arya sighed and stood, walking towards the door and unbolting it. “I shouldn’t have bothered you so late.”

She opened the door only enough that her slight frame could fit through, pausing for a moment to look at him. Her grey eyes were warm in the dim light of the fire.

“Goodnight, Sandor.” 

The door shut with hardly a sound.

 

* * *

The war room was getting decidedly crowded as the days went on. Sansa wondered if they shouldn’t just start hosting it in the Great Hall, as Davos bumped into her, apologizing immediately. 

Jon rubbed his face with one hand as he looked over the scroll in front of him. 

“Tormund and Beric survived Eastwatch, along with a few others who stayed behind. Tormund is on his way here from Castle Black, so we’ll get the Wildlings under control soon.” 

They had been a bawdy bunch, not afraid of public scuffles or trying to teach the young Northern kids _their_ method of killing. Jon wasn’t sure what Tormund could really do to get them to calm down, but figured if they were going to listen to anyone, it would be one of their own. 

“He should be here in a week, I estimate,” Jon mused. 

“The dead are in Queenscrown,” Bran interrupted, a stoic, distant look on his face. “There was a Wildling camp there, they are all dead now.”

Jon frowned at the loss, but was relieved that the dead weren’t coming directly South. 

“That buys us some time, if they are moving West first,” he considered as he moved a blue stone over Queenscrown.

“And gains them a bigger army,” Jorah added grimly. 

“When will the Unsullied and Dothraki be here?” Jon turned to Daenerys. 

“Within the week,” Tyrion answered for her, nodding towards the stones on the table. Davos slid them further up the Kingsroad.

“Those are big armies, who aren’t used to the cold, we should see to it that they are properly clothed,” Sansa interjected. 

“My apologies m’lady, but the Unsullied feel no pain so it would be a waste to use material on them,” Missandei offered quietly from just behind the Queen. 

“They may not feel pain but I still want them to feel their fingers and toes,” Daenerys said kindly, smiling towards Missandei then Sansa. “Let me know if there is anything my people can supply, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa nodded in thanks towards Daenerys, noting the woman’s attempts to stay in her good graces. She couldn’t say she didn’t appreciate the effort.

“And what about Jaime?” 

Brienne’s eyes widened slightly, unaware that he was coming to Winterfell. She’d heard from Sansa that the Lannister forces had not mobilized and had assumed that meant Jaime was staying in King’s Landing as well. 

“He’s just north of the Crossroads, with another man,” Bran offered quietly. 

“Bronn,” Tyrion reckoned. “That’s good then, he’s a good fighter.”

“It’ll be a fort night until they are here,” Jon calculated. 

“And the dragonglass, Ser Davos, how is that coming?” Jon looked at the older man who stood next to Sansa. 

“Ah, it’s going well your grace—it took the men a bit to figure out the best way to carve it, but the weapons they are making now are strong. About seven thousand daggers so far,” Davos informed.

“Triple it. And make sure they are making spear tips as well, for longer range attacks,” Jon ordered. 

“Your grace,” Tyrion spoke up. “When I was on the battlefield with our Queen, the Lannister forces had a large weapon for the dragon, a ballista of sorts. Given our situation, with the loss of one of the dragons to the Night King, it would be in our interest to replicate this weapon a few times over, and ensure several spears are made for it.” 

“Have the maester and Samwell look through our books to see if they can find any information about this weapon. But let’s wait until Jaime and Bronn arrive, so we can get better specifications from them on the build of it. A few days time shouldn’t be an issue,” Jon ordered. 

Daenerys noted that despite not wanting this role, the man next to her was a born leader. She smiled proudly, looking forward to their reign after the army of the dead was taken care of.

 

* * *

The solar was at the top of the Great Keep, a warm almost green-house like space with panes of glass covering its ceiling. Streams of light filtered in through the dirty glass, dancing on the carpets and table tops. A variety of plants dotted the room on shelves and tables, reaching towards the sunlight. There was a writing desk to one side of the room, and a large hearth—perhaps one of the largest on the grounds—on the other side. In the middle was a large round table with a variety of chairs around it, with piles of books and other oddities lying atop it. Grey banners trimmed in white ribbon decorated the walls along with a tapestry which featured several wolves in a forest.

“I haven’t seen you speaking with Clegane lately,” Sansa noted absently as she stitched a dragon detail on the chest of a wool jacket that was clearly intended for Tyrion Lannister. 

Arya was sitting across from her absently paging through tomes of tales that Old Nan used to read to them. Sansa thought she looked bored but appreciated the chance to enjoy some leisure time with her sister. 

“Sandor’s a good sword, we spar,” she noted, looking over the images of dire wolves in front of her. “But he’s not so good with words. I’d have better conversations with a stone wall.”

Sansa smiled to herself, knowing exactly what she meant. “Well, you’re not exactly overflowing with topics of conversation.”

Arya ignored her sister as she closed the book and grabbed another one, ‘The Histories of Old Valryia,’ opening it to a random page. She flipped through the pages detailing the fall of the legendary place, stories of dragonglass raining from the sky, the beginning of the end for dragons.

“What are you doing?” Sansa was giving her a quizzical look. 

Arya looked up at her, a thick brow raised. “Reading about the downfall of Old Valryia. I’d like to visit one day.”

“Men do not come back from there,” Sansa warned. 

“Valar morghulis,” she smirked as she turned a page, not looking up at her sister. 

Arya knew this time was important to her sister. It was important to her too, but she had a looming dread over her upcoming travel which hadn’t been disclosed to anyone except the man she apparently wasn’t talking to.

“What does that mean?”

“All men must die,” Arya said quietly. 

_And women, too_ , she thought grimly to herself as she pictured the Queen in the South.

 

* * *

The little boy weaved quietly through the cold, cramped streets, bare foot and dirty. His eyes were bright though, more aware than a child of his age should have been. He stopped at a doorway, watching the people around him, making sure he wasn’t being followed, then ducked into the dark corridor. 

Qyburn may have thought he had bought off the Spider’s little birds with candy, but Varys always had birds to sing him songs. This little bird crept through drains and catacombs under Cobbler’s Square, hearing chirps the Alchemist’s may have hidden Wildfire from the Queen. Just in case she went mad like Aerys.

The catacombs were dark, damp and sandy to keep the Wildfire from imploding. It was a volatile substance and the greatest care had to be taken with it to avoid blowing up half of the city. And sure enough, the little bird found what he was in search of—rows and rows, barrels and barrels marked simply with a ‘W’ on the side. From where he stood near a stone pillar, too afraid to go any closer, he could see the faint, ominous green glow that confirmed what he was in search of.

 

* * *

Arya watched her brother carefully, his eyes white, his breaths growing more ragged. She had come to him midday in his chambers where he rested, and he had immediately asked her when she was leaving for King’s Landing. Now she waited for him to give her any insight into King’s Landing’s defenses: tunnels, unmanned entrances, anything.

Bran had been gone for at least half an hour now and Arya was growing impatient, pacing the room fervently as she waited. The boy’s room was dark save for the fire glowing in the hearth. Arya walked to the shuttered windows and pulled one of them open, looking out over the courtyard. 

Winterfell may have seemed a grey waste to the untrained eye, but to her it was beautiful and perfect. It’s sturdy stone walls, tall towers with blue slate roofs, fiercely bright heart tree that reminded her of her mother—it felt safe and long-lasting. She watched as one of the Stark banners fluttered against the stone wall across the courtyard and she smiled grimly, unsure when she’d see this place again. 

“Arya…”

She turned back to her brother, who looked pale and thin, weak from his many trips through time. Arya walked to the table and poured a cup of water for him, handing it to him gingerly as he put it to his mouth. 

“When was the last time you ate, Bran?” She looked him over, concerned. 

“Food is the least of my concerns right now,” Bran mumbled. 

Arya scoffed. “You can’t keep doing what you’re doing if you don’t keep yourself alive,” she chided. “I’ll have lunch brought to you.”

With effort, he sat up in bed, the furs and blankets devouring his frail form. Arya sat on the edge of the bed next to him as he began telling her of King’s Landing’s secrets. 

 

* * *

Glowering, Sansa made her way down from the gallery, looking around the courtyard. It was midday and the yard was busy with the normal activities that took place these days: food stocks on horse drawn carts, archery lessons, sword fighting, weapon building. It was a flurry of activity that she had grown used to, but she still held a heavy line between her brows as she dodged past a horse on her way to the Great Keep. 

As she came inside, she saw Brienne making her way towards her. 

“Lady Stark,” Brienne bowed slightly with a small, courteous smile. 

“Have you seen my sister today?” Sansa asked immediately. 

“No, my lady, I have not. Last I saw her… she was speaking with Sandor Clegane in the stairwell of the Great Keep,” Brienne offered, frowning in concern. 

“When was that?”

“Yesterday afternoon, my lady,” Brienne replied. “She looked anxious and he looked… agitated?”

“How do you mean?” Sansa asked impatiently.

“Whatever they were talking about seemed urgent but they were very hushed as I walked by, as though no one should know,” the tall woman answered, worry in her eyes. 

“And you swear that was the last you saw them?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa walked off, growing increasingly frustrated. Her sister had been acting even more secretive than normal the past few days and Sansa wondered if she should have listened to Brienne more closely. 

She made her way up to Arya’s chambers, climbing the steps two at a time. Without knocking, she entered the room, hoping—praying—that she was just sitting there cleaning her sword. The room was cold, there hadn’t been a fire lit since last night. Frantically, she walked around her sister’s bed, looking for her belongings, pulling open drawers to the bureau and slamming them shut, each one empty. The bed hadn’t been made, so Sansa tore through the blankets and furs looking for any sign of her sister or her whereabouts. 

Growing more concerned and wary of Brienne’s words about the man she thought was safe to have in their home, she rushed out of the room and down the stairs towards his quarters. But similar to Arya’s chambers, the room was cold and empty of any belongings. 

_Shit._

Sansa hurried out of the room and went to Bran’s quarters, flinging the door open, surprised when she saw Jon was there. 

“I… sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Bran, where is Arya?” 

“What do you mean?” Jon turned to her, noting her exasperated expression. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t find Arya, or Sandor Clegane,” she informed him, her eyes wide in panic. “ _Bran_ , where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Bran said quietly.

“Don’t do this, Bran, I know you can see where she is,” Sansa hissed, coming to stand next to him. She knelt down next to his chair and grasped his forearm, noting how thin in felt, even under the thick layers keeping him warm. 

“She was asking me about King’s Landing yesterday,” he noted.

“Why would she care about King’s Landing?” Jon inquired, coming closer to the fire to stand near them. 

“Her bloody list,” Sansa growled, standing. “She’s going after Cersei.”

Brienne entered the room, her pale cheeks flushed. “The stable boy said there are two horses missing, my lady.” 

 

* * *

_Earlier that day…_

Given the hour, Arya wasn’t surprised the stables were as quiet as they were. She had gotten up earlier than Sandor to tack both horses, knowing he’d be unable to see in the dim light without alerting the sentries. 

With long, thin fingers covered in fine leather gloves, she deftly cinched the belts and straps to the saddles, gently pulled the bridles on, attached the saddle bags and bedrolls, and led the horses to the entry of the stables to wait for him. 

When Arya got back to Winterfell she’d traded in the horse she had purchased when she returned from Essos for a well-bred palfrey mare with a dark grey coat covered in white dapples and a long blond mane and tail. It wasn’t too different in looks from the last horse, save for being a bit darker and of much higher breeding standards. The steed she’d pulled for Sandor was a tall courser with a shiny black coat and a white spot about the size of her hand on its chest, which she’d thought amusing. It reminded her a lot of his old horse, Stranger, who she hadn’t seen since they parted ways in the Vale. She wondered if Sandor missed the horse; seeing as he was the only one who could tame it, it was clear to her that he had a special connection with the beast. 

Winterfell was cast in the strange light of pre-dawn when the moon’s shadows began to fade and the sky began to lighten ever so slightly. She looked out over the courtyard towards the Great Keep and felt a familiar ache in her stomach, knowing her siblings would not be pleased when they discovered her absence. She hoped they wouldn’t send anyone after her.

She watched as Sandor came out of the building and made his way along the edges of the courtyard like she’d shown him on the way back from the Godswood the other night. A small bark of a laugh escaped her lips as she thought about what her younger self would think if she knew she would end up traveling Westeros with this man again. Perhaps she would have given the Hound the mercy he had begged for. Alas, the Hound had been dead long before that moment. 

“It’s bloody cold,” Sandor grumbled as he approached, attaching his pack to the side of his saddle and taking the reins from Arya. 

“Guess it’s good we’re going South then,” she smirked. 

“How do you plan to get out of here without being seen?”

She nodded in the direction of the nearest gate, and walked her horse towards it. Sandor followed quietly.

“The South gate is almost never manned, because it’s never open,” she explained as she pulled two thin pieces of metal from her pocket. 

With a little finesse, the lock creaked open and she pushed the door aside. They walked their horses out the entrance and, handing her reins to Sandor, she relocked the door.

Arya placed her left foot in the stirrup and heaved herself up, tossing her right leg over with ease. The hooves crunched in the snow as they made their way across the fields, intent on getting on the Kingsroad after they were a decent distance from the castle. After a few minutes, Arya paused and turned her palfrey so she could get a good look at Winterfell. Small flickering lights shone in the windows of the Keep and she sighed, the ache in her stomach back. She hoped she was making the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Jon and Sansa send riders after her? Will Arya and Sandor run into Jaime and Bronn? Will the Dothraki and Unsullied reach Winterfell in time? Who knows!


	6. moving on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reconnects with Tyrion. Gendry arrives at Winterfell. Arya + Sandor settle in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Dany still exist? Probably, but I find her boring, so let's just assume she's somewhere in the background yelling about fire and blood, dragons and birthrights.

 

**06\. moving on.**

_Calm me with your lies your simple tragedy_  
_It's all I wish to hear tonight_  
_and you're all I wish to be  
_ _And this is how we all fall_

 _Tonight my heart is cold_  
_Lost in your lies, shallow replies_  
_Tonight I'll just let go  
_ _Lost in your eyes, transparent cries_

**[\- Glass to the Arson, Anberlin](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

“My lady, if it pleases you, I’d be happy to track her down, and bring her back,” Brienne offered as she stood before Sansa, who sat at the head table in the Great Hall. 

Sansa absently fingered the papers in front of her. Despite Jon having returned, she was still taking care of the day to day operations of the hold while he focused on war preparations. In front of her stood Brienne, tall and proud as always, with her squire just behind her. Podrick was a sweet man, Sansa had noted, always willing to help in any way, whether it was something that benefited Brienne or not. 

“And have a repeat of the last time the four of you were in confrontation?” She gave Brienne a wry look. 

“The man isn’t injured anymore, he might not go as easy on you.” She noted Brienne’s frown. “At any rate, I need you here by my side. Arya, as frustrating as she is, is capable of handling herself, especially if she is in the company of Clegane.”

“But my lady—”

Sansa waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry yourself Brienne. I need you here.”

Brienne set her mouth in a tight line, standing tall and straight. “Yes, my lady.”

While Sansa was frustrated that her sister had run off, she took solace in the fact that she could handle herself, especially with the large man who had shown an interest in her safety beside her. She wondered if Arya knew the extent of Clegane’s interest in her wellbeing. Likely not, she decided. Arya was stubborn and arrogant in her own abilities, and would not have wanted him along if she knew it was for her own protection. Sansa figured she’d brought him along because of the man’s brother, who she had found out was on her sister’s list. 

Brienne turned as the door at the opposite end of the hall opened, letting in a rush of cold air, making the torches lining the walls dance. Tyrion Lannister came in, shutting the door behind himself and approached them. 

“It looks good, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa smiled, nodding towards the deep purple jacket he wore with the silver embroidered dragon ensnaring a lion. Little beads of onyx, emerald and burgundy shimmered in the torchlight as he neared them. 

“Lady Sansa, quiet an exquisite gift. I do not know where you find the time, between managing Winterfell’s affairs and worrying for your sister,” Tyrion nodded his thanks, coming to stand at the other side of the table from her. 

“A gift of thanks for the years you were so kind to me,” she explained, watching him finger the detail on the chest. 

“I was only doing what any good man would have,” Tyrion said graciously.

“Yes, but you were one of the few good men I have had in my life. And for that, I owe you my gratitude. I was a silly little girl, not able to appreciate your kindness at the time.”

Sansa had grown up a lot since they had last spoken, some six years ago when she fled the capital with the help of Ser Dontos, who had been working for Petyr. Her stomach twisted in knots as she thought of the man who had both helped and betrayed her for so many years. She owned Baelish a lot, for he had taught her many lessons, but in doing so had crossed her and the Stark house innumerable times, including what ultimately led to her father’s death. In the right light, she could still see the stain on the floor from the Mockingbird’s blood.

“I trust you are no longer a silly girl,” Tyrion interrupted her thoughts with a smile. 

Sansa smiled, a true, warm smile towards the dwarf. She hadn’t noticed how his hair caught the warm light, lighting on fire much like hers in the dim room. He did not have the honey blond, straight hair of his siblings, and for that she was appreciative.

“Lord Tyrion, might you accompany me to the Godswood?” Sansa stood and began making her way around the table, holding her hand in the air as Brienne moved to follow her, a soft smile to the large woman. 

“Nothing would honor me more,” Tyrion replied, walking next to her out of the hall.

They walked side by side through the courtyard towards the Godswood in silence, taking in the usual bustle of the yard. Only Stark’s came into the Godswood, and those they invited. It was a sacred place, perhaps not the same sort of sacred that their mother had intended, but a place that Sansa valued none-the-less. Jon had allowed Daenerys to keep the dragons in the Godswood, but fortunately they were not here now. It was just silence, save for the occasional creak of a tree branch or the whistle of a sparrow. 

The snow crunched under their boots as they walked through the woods, meandering with no real destination, just enjoying each other’s company.

“When this is all over, what do you expect?” Sansa asked at last, her mind now trained to think strategically.

“Assuming I make it to the other side,” Tyrion quipped, “I’d like to find a place to settle down where it’s warm and live a happy life. I’ve grown quite tired of all this nonsense.”

Tyrion turned his face up towards her and she looked down at him, smiling sincerely. He was not like the other Lannisters, never had been as far as she could recall. That made her appreciate his company more. 

“More seriously though, I would like to see our Queen sitting on the Iron Throne,” Tyrion mused, his expression growing more serious. 

“What do you think will happen to your sister?” Sansa wondered if he knew about Arya’s plans for his sister. If the younger Stark was successful, it would be much easier to get Daenerys on the throne. 

Tyrion was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. With furrowed brows and a twist to his lips, he turned towards the heart tree as they approached it. 

“Cersei will not go out without a fight.”

Sansa hummed in agreement, bending to pick up a large blood-red leaf. She examined the black veins on the underside of the leaf as she held it in her hand, almost completely covered by it. 

“Well, if we don’t win the fight coming from the North, none of this will matter,” Sansa said definitively, tearing the leaf into small bits and letting them fall from her hands. 

Tyrion watched the bits of leaf scatter in the light breeze, noting it felt rather poetic as the red pieces dotted the fresh packed snow in front of them. 

“And what of you, Lady Sansa? What do you want?”

Sansa shot him a surprised look suddenly, before quickly pulling her face back to its normal stoic position. But Tyrion had noticed.

_‘I’d risk everything to get what I want.’_

_‘And what do you want?’_

_‘Everything,’ Petyr said in his slimy way, his hand squeezing her shoulder lightly._

The Lady of Winterfell looked down at the dwarf for a moment, before looking up at the heart tree, the sunlight lighting her hair on fire much like the leaves of the tree. She was breathtaking, Tyrion noted.

“To survive, like I always have.”

 

* * *

 

On their first night, they made camp along the banks of the western branch of the White Knife, using the bridge as shelter. The weather, while cold, had been kind to them, the snowless wind blowing south. By this point, though, the grounds had been covered in snow for months, reaching two feet deep in some places. Drifts of snow had built up along the bank, creating a natural barrier from wind underneath the bridge.

With the horses tied up, Arya and Sandor began making camp for the night. Sandor was surprised at how quickly they seemed to settle into a routine, as though they had only been separated for a few days. Arya would always get a fire going, a job she had silently taken over after he had admitted to his fear years ago in the Vale. He couldn't say he didn't appreciate it but was sure she wouldn’t admit she was doing it for his benefit, even to this day. While she gathered stones and sticks under the bridge to build the fire, Sandor took the saddles from their horses and set up the rest of camp, pulling provisions for dinner.

“There’s wine in that saddle bag over there,” she informed as she crouched over the kindling, striking her flint. 

With the fire bright and warm between them they sat silently, eating the pheasant Arya had managed to smuggle from the kitchen. She hadn’t been able to grab enough rations for the whole trip, but hoped what she had stolen away would last them for almost a fortnight. Maybe not the wine, she wondered to herself as she watched the scarred man take a deep drink. 

“You think your sister’s gonna send someone after you?” Sandor asked through a full mouth, wiping his beard with the back of his hand as some of the juices ran down. 

Arya wasn’t sure. She didn’t know her sister anymore. While Sansa had shown she was capable of manipulative techniques to get what she wanted, she had also shown uncharacteristic interest in her younger sister’s dealings as of late. Arya wondered how much of that had to do with the siblings all being reunited, and how much of it had to do with the man that sat across from her right now. He had definitely changed, she noted. His face was somehow softer and harsher at the same time, the ridges in his brow deepening but his eyes and mouth warmer. His beard was winter-thick and somewhere in the back of her mind she noted she liked it that way. Not that she should have any opinion on how he groomed himself. Arya blinked herself out of her own thoughts, returning to the warmth of the fire and the steady gaze of Sandor Clegane. 

“It’s possible. I’m not worried about it,” Arya stated as she picked at the bird in front of her, trying to get as much of the stringy meat from the bones that she could. 

“I’m not going to fight off any Stark soldiers,” he said resolutely as he tossed a bone into the fire.

“I don’t need you to,” she glared at him. She didn’t need his help. “I can handle them on my own.” 

“You’re going to take down twenty men?” Sandor eyed her suspiciously. 

“With my eyes closed,” she said definitively, staring at him over the flames. 

“I’d pay to see that,” he chuckled, looking at the bone in his hand. 

_‘I’d kill Joffrey with a chicken bone if I had to.’_

_‘I’d pay good money to see that.’_

Unexpectedly, she smiled at him as though she remembered the moment as well. He wondered what life would look like if they had made it to the Saltpans after leaving The Eyrie. If Brienne had never happened upon them; if he hadn’t needed to protect her, risking his own life for hers. Would they both be in Essos now? Would they have parted ways, or stayed together? Could he have seen himself domesticating with someone as insolent as she had been, despite having grown on him? Maybe they both could have given up the miserable, bloody lives they had in Westeros and started anew.

“How’d you survive?” Arya asked quietly after a few moments of silence. 

Sandor took another drink of the wine. He’d brushed her off the first night they had been reunited in Winterfell when she asked about his leg, when her tone was sarcastic and guarded. But now she was genuinely concerned, her skin glowing over the fire, her eyes earnest and interested. 

“A septon found me. Not sure how long after you left me,” he noticed the twitch in the corner of her mouth—a frown? 

“From what I hear, I almost died half a dozen times. Honestly I don’t remember much. At some point the pain had gotten so bad that I was out of my mind and next I know I’m laying in a tent with my leg all bandaged up and my shoulder stitched up proper,” he recounted, rubbing his right thigh. He left out the part where he had been told he was calling out for her. 

“You didn’t stay with them, clearly.”

“Had planned on it. Was with them for a couple months,” he admitted, a crack in his gruff voice. “I had a chance to start over and I took it.” 

“But something horrible happened, like it always does,” she guessed pessimistically, waving the bird’s bone theatrically in the air. 

“Aye, something horrible happened,” he said quietly, watching the flames dance in front of him. 

“Is that how you ended up with my brother?” 

“Not quite. The Brotherhood killed the group I was with.”

Arya scoffed in disapproval. He knew her history with the men who claimed no allegiance other than to the Lord of Light, but wondered if she would change her mind if she knew the sacrifices they had made. He wondered if she would believe him if he mentioned his vision in the flames. 

“Well, some bandits from the Brotherhood. Went off to kill them—”

“It’s good to see you didn’t really change,” she interrupted smugly. 

“Do you want the story or not, wolf girl?” 

Arya pressed her lips firmly together and made a locking motion with her fingers, tossing the imaginary key off into the frozen river. Sandor rolled his eyes. 

“Beric and Thoros were hanging the men—”

“Hanging! What a waste,” Arya scoffed. Sandor chuckled to himself, _atta-girl_.

“They were going on about a bigger purpose or some horse shit. I didn’t have anywhere better to go, so I went with them. Ended up at the Wall, met your brother and a bunch of other men going off to catch a wight to prove to the lioness cunt what was going on. That’s how I ended up on the back of that fucking dragon.”

“Some adventure,” she teased.

“I’m done with adventure,” he grumbled, taking a final swig of the wine before capping it and tossing it towards the packs.

“And yet here you are,” she eyed him.

Sandor laid down on his bedroll, pulling his cloak and an extra fur close around his body, the metal of his armor scraping as he settled in for a cold night.

“Aye, here I am.”

 

* * *

Gendry had never been to Winterfell. In fact, up until a few weeks ago, he had never been in the North and was decidedly unimpressed with its cold, its wind, its… nothingness. If it weren’t for Tormund leading their way, he wasn’t sure he’d know up from down. The days had been grey and dim, filled with snow storms and too much wind. 

The last few days of their journey had been through the woods, so at least he had that to be thankful for. Trees meant less snow, and less snow meant they had a dry place to sleep and an easier time hunting for rabbits and squirrels.

But now, as they approached the gates of Winterfell, he thought it was all worth it. In a few short moments he would be reunited with a long lost friend and would be able to recount the past several years over a warm stew and a mug of ale. 

“Riders approaching!” The sentries readied themselves at the North Gate as the two riders approached. 

“Who approaches?” A guard called down to the two riders. 

The red-headed Wildling looked up at the man in the tower above him. “Tell Jon Snow his red-headed lover is back,” Tormund Giantsbane mocked with a toothy grin. 

The guards looked at each other, confused. 

“Tormund Giantsbane,” he acquiesced in amusement. 

“What’s your name, boy?”

Gendry, shivering from the long and windy journey, looked up at the sentry from under his layers. “Gendry… Bara—Waters,” he said at last. 

The sentries disappeared for a time, leaving the two riders alone in the snowy cold. Gendry seemed to recede into his layers, to the point where Tormund could hardly see the young man’s eyes, much to the Wildling’s amusement. 

The gate went up after some time and the two rode into the courtyard. Jon Snow stood waiting for them with a red-headed woman who Gendry didn’t recognize. The men dismounted and Tormund drew Snow into his arms in a big bear hug. 

“Good to see you survived,” Jon said as he was released from the large man’s grip. 

“Aye, only just,” Tormund frowned. He turned back towards Gendry who approached. “This one wants to help with weapon-building.”

“And I want to see your sister,” Gendry said immediately.

Sansa frowned, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

The bull looked over at the tall, beautiful woman standing beside Jon. He was confused. Jon smirked, “This is _Sansa_ Stark, Lady of Winterfell. One of my sisters.”

“Ah… my lady,” Gendry nodded towards her. “Apologies for the confusion. I’m looking for Arya.”

“Arya?” Sansa wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind she was frustrated at all her sister’s secrets. 

Gendry scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly. “We traveled together a long time ago.”

Sansa looked over at Jon with her brows raised. How many men had Arya traveled with over the years? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

“You didn’t say anything about that,” Jon said, eyeing the blacksmith. 

“Seemed there were more pressing things to deal with,” Gendry suggested. 

“You’ve just missed her. She left yesterday with Sandor Clegane,” Sansa said, a bit of annoyance in her voice.

“The _Hound_? Why in seven hells is she with him?” Gendry suddenly felt very protective. He’d remembered the Hound from the fight in the caves with the Brotherhood and hadn’t felt much more comfortable with him when they were north of the Wall. The man was vulgar, grouchy and deadly. And all wrong for Arya to be around.

“I assume they are heading to King’s Landing,” Sansa continued. “To deal with Cersei Lannister.”

Gendry balked. What possible business could she have with the Queen? 

“I’m going to go after her,” he decided. 

“Boy, she’s gone. We need you here,” Tormund clapped him on the shoulder, earning him a glare from the much shorter man. 

“I haven’t seen her in ages—as far as she knows I’m dead—hell, I thought _she_ was dead until recently! I have to find her,” Gendry said, emotion thick in his voice. 

“Then she still thinks you’re dead. She doesn’t need the distraction right now,” Sansa decided. 

“But that.. that _man_ is with her!”

Sansa smiled to herself. This man had no idea who or what Arya was now. She was sure the only person who could truly understand her was the one she was traveling with. 

“She’s in good company. We need you here,” she said softly. “Come, let’s get you all something warm to eat.”

Tormund grinned wide as they followed them into the Great Hall. Gendry sulked, silently considering his chances of actually catching up with her.

* * *

 

The fire was burning low in front of her. She wanted to add a few fresh sticks to it, so it would stay warm until day broke in a few hours, but she didn’t want to disturb her traveling companion. So she had sat there, silently watching him. Across the fire from her, he slept, his chest rising and falling slowly, rhythmically. She had been staring at the furs’ movement for the last several minutes. 

Arya had been awoken by an unsettling dream. No, a memory. Dreams didn’t exist, but this was true and real. It shouldn’t have bothered her this much and she was annoyed that it had. There was something that had put her on edge the last couple weeks and she was beginning to think it was the man that lay softly snoring across from her. 

_‘You think you’re on your own.’_

It had been the second time in as many weeks that she had been reminded of that eye-opening day in the Vale. Only this time, she had relived the moment in her dreams. The way his eyes had bore into her as she sat listening, suddenly feeling pity for him. But when he had finished his story, she didn’t pity him anymore, she understood him. He probably hadn’t meant it as such, but she felt like he was saying ‘we can be alone together’ and she was alright with that idea.

It had been the first time she had ever truly touched him, as she gently helped him with the wound on his shoulder. Sure, she had been forced to sit on Stranger, grasping his mane and the back of Sandor’s armor, but it wasn’t the same. It had been the first time in months she had touched another human for any reason other than with ill intentions and it felt good.

His skin had been softer than she had expected a soldier like him to be. Soft and warm, even in the cool air of the lowlands. She remembered lingering a moment longer than she should have when she had finished stitching him up. He had let her linger. Both of them had been so starved for any sort of human touch but if it had been brought up, they would have both vehemently denied it.

A small smile found its way to Arya’s lips as she watched him sleep. He always slept with the fire away from the scarred side of his face, his good side facing her. She thought they were both good sides. The scars didn’t bother her, never had. While she never had anything as noticeable as the burns he wore, she knew what it was like to be picked on for your looks. _Horseface_ , her sister’s friend had always called her. That girl was dead, Arya was certain. Good riddance, she thought bitterly.

Arya yawned and figured she should try to get a couple more hours of sleep before they continued their cold trek. She put a few more sticks on the fire, moving them around so they began burning. The fire crackled as it brightened. Laying back down on her pack, she wrapped the blanket and furs tightly around her shoulders.

She watched him as she drifted back off to sleep, his face glowing in the light of the flames. She imagined his skin was warm.


	7. as sweet as poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More guests than Sansa was expecting arrive. Sam gives up something important. Arya and Sandor stay at a gravedigger's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure coincidence that a chapter of this and a chapter of Dogwood Winter came out in the same day. More to read!

 

**07\. as sweet as poison.**

_Spent my whole damn life,_  
_Trying to get things right,_  
_And for every one of my mistakes,_  
_You gave me all these chances,_  
_When the roads too long,_  
_I am tired,_  
_Baby you are my horizon,  
_ _And I'll drive until it all breaks down_

**[\- The Edge of Tonight, All Time Low](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

The Great Hall was dim, only lit by the streams of light coming in through the high windows. Rabbit stew laid heavy in the air as Tormund and Gendry entered with Sansa and Jon, and it was at that point Gendry realized just how hungry he was. 

Seated at a long table was Brienne, Podrick, Davos, Sam, Gilly, and Little Sam, all quietly eating their steaming bowls of stew. They all looked up when the doors opened, bringing with it a rush of cold winter air, and eyed the newcomers. Sansa saw herself out, claiming business with one of the suppliers in the yard. 

“Boy, what are you doing here!” Davos called as he stood to greet the blacksmith with a warm hug.

Davos and Gendry sunk into their reunion over the warm bowls of stew as the rest of the group resumed eating. Brienne did her best to ignore the brash Wildling who made a point to sit across from her and Podrick. 

Tormund eyed the two of them as he forwent his spoon in favor of slurping the stew, two large hands holding the warm bowl. The loud slurps coming from him caused Brienne to sneer in his direction, catching his eye. He put the bowl down with a loud thud and grinned at her. 

“She put you on your back anymore?” Tormund leaned into the table, looking at Podrick who hadn’t noticed the exchange. 

Podrick had gotten better with his sparring since the last he saw the Wildling, but no where near Brienne’s talents. That he’d never achieve. “Only a few times,” Pod admitted quietly. 

“Lucky, lucky man,” he clicked his tongue to himself as he looked over at her. 

Brienne continued to wear the deep scowl she’d had when first he sat across from her. Tormund regarded her cooly, a tooth grin peaking out from his scraggly red beard. She really did not like this oaf of a man. No one gave her this much attention without malicious intent. She had heard it all before and her skin had grown thick, now it was just an annoyance. Not to mention the man was just gross, she sneered to herself.

“In the North you would be a Queen,” he said, his eyes warm and sincere. 

“You can mock me all you want, sir,” Brienne sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. 

Tormund barked out a laugh. “I’m the furthest thing from what you Southerners call a sir. Though _King_ Snow did bend the knee for me once,” Tormund glanced over at Jon, who was deep in conversation with Davos and Gendry. 

“And I mean the words I say, always do. With your size and your beauty, you’d be unstoppable,” he said wistfully. 

Podrick smirked and shot Brienne a glance. She stomped on his foot, hard. He let out a sharp yelp and turned back to his meal. 

“I’ll not sit here and listen to this. I’ve better things to do with my time,” Brienne snarled and was just about to stand and leave when the door swung open with a loud thud.

“Soldiers approaching, my Lord,” the plump guard said, breathlessly.

Jon stood to follow, his heavy cloak rustling as he moved quickly towards the door. He instructed the guard to find Daenerys as they exited. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief amongst those who remained in the Great Hall.

The Dothraki and Unsullied armies had finally arrived.

 

* * *

The sword was heavy, Sam complained to himself for the third time since he’d picked it up to carry it across the castle. Wrapped in layers of cloth, it would look like any other bundled sword, but it was a very special sword indeed. It was one of the few Valyrian steel swords in the Seven Kingdoms. 

There was a part of him that had been despondent when he found out about his brother and father. He’d even avoided the Dragon Queen as much as possible, even to this day. But his father had been horrible to him and he hardly knew his brother, who had gone off to squire at a young age for House Tyrell. He longed to go home to see his mother and sister, but knew that more important matters were at hand. 

Heartsbane had been in the Tarly family for generations. But the incoming threat could eradicate every future generation if he didn’t put family pride aside to make use of the special metal that could help more fend off the dead. 

Sam waddled across the yard, squinting against the heavy snow that chilled him to the bone. He longed to take Gilly and Little Sam as far south as he could, where it would be safer and warmer. He had even tried to convince Gilly to go south to Hornhill, but like a true Wildling, she was stubborn as ever in her resolution to remain as far North as possible.

The smithy was one of the few warm places outside, with multiple hot fires going as weapons were forged. Several men moved about, hammering on steel, chipping away at dragonglass. Sam found the man he was looking for near one of the fires. 

“Excuse me,” he called as he approached cautiously. The young man looked up at him, grime on his face but eyes bright. 

“You’re Samwell, right?” Gendry smiled generously towards him. 

“Aye. That I am. It’s my understanding that you studied under Tobho Mott in Kings Landing, is that correct?” Sam sat the sword on the long wooden table between them. 

“For the better part of ten years, aye,” Gendry eyed the bundle Sam had begun unwrapping. 

“Tobho Mott was one of the few men known to be able to reforge Valyrian steel. Might he have taught you anything about that during your time under him?” Sam pulled the last of the cloths off the sword, revealing Heartsbane to the smith. 

Gendry knelt down to table level to eye the sword, noting the swirls in the metal, indicative of Valyrian steel. 

“Hadn’t much else to do other than be in the smithy, so I learned a lot of his techniques.” 

Gendry picked up the sword, testing its weight in his hand. He raised the sword, cutting the air quickly. Sam took an instinctive step back. 

“This is my family sword, Heartsbane. I was hoping we could melt it down to be forged into smaller Valyrian weapons, for more men,” Sam explained. 

“Are you sure?” Gendry questioned, setting the sword back on the table gently. 

“It won’t serve a purpose sitting in a closet or on a mantle, and I’m not likely to wield it,” Sam gave a smirk, eyeing himself. 

Gendry smiled politely, but knew he was right. He nodded. 

“We can probably make about ten daggers out of it. I’ll save the hilt for you,” Gendry ran his dirty fingers over the decorative carvings of two archers. 

Sam looked down at the sword, frowning for a moment before looking back at the smith and nodding. “It’s for the best,” he seemed to be trying to convince himself. 

“Aye. Jon will be very grateful. We may even be able to reforge it if we can collect all the daggers after this is all done,” the smith tried to feign a hopeful tone. 

“We’ll worry about that if the time comes,” Sam said as he collected the rags the sword had been wrapped in. 

“When,” Gendry said. “ _When_ the time comes.”

 

* * *

Sansa blanched at the number of soldiers outside their gates from atop the battlements. Daenerys’ forces had arrived that morning and this was the first time she was seeing them from up high, all in one place. How was she going to ensure they all were fed? How were they going to cloth this many? 

She sighed, burrowing into the furs around her shoulders, wrapping her arms tighter around herself under her cloak. It had gotten decidedly colder the last day or so, she had noticed. 

“Impressive, no?” she heard a warm voice from behind her. “First time I saw the sheer number of men, I had the same look on my face.”

Sansa turned to see Tyrion approaching. “Lord Tyrion,” she greeted with a warm smile. She turned back to the troops. “Impressive is one word for it. Expensive is another.” 

“Lady of Winterfell suits you well, Lady Sansa. Always worried about the bottom line,” Tyrion came to stand beside her, looking out over the white hills that surrounded Winterfell. 

“The food, the materials,” she sighed. 

“Think of it this way, if they weren’t here, we’d all be fucked,” Tyrion turned and shot her a grin beneath his thick beard. 

Sansa gave him a clever smile. “Yes. Yes, we would.” 

She watched as the dragons circled above the castle, heavy wings thundering in the snow. What would her mother and father think if they were here? Sansa frowned to herself. 

“What brings you up here, Lord Tyrion?”

“Apologies if I’m disturbing you, my lady—”

“No, no. Not at all,” she smiled kindly. 

“Though, I do have business with you,” he admitted, his gloved finger running along the grey stone wall. She raised a delicate brow his way. 

“I was speaking with your brother, discussing plans for those of us who will not be on the front lines in the coming war,” Tyrion said cautiously, watching her expression grow darker. 

“He wants me to leave,” Sansa deduced. 

“Yes, my lady. With Davos, Varys, Missandei, myself and a few others.”

Sansa turned to look down at Tyrion. She liked him, he was honest but kind. However, she was starting to wonder, he may be a bit thick-headed. 

“This is my home, Lord Tyrion. I don’t intend to abandon it,” she said sternly. 

Tyrion raised his hands diplomatically, sensing her growing frustration. 

“No one was suggesting you abandon Winterfell—”

“Then what are you suggesting, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa’s voice was getting sharp.

“ _We_ are suggesting that those of us who cannot properly defend ourselves move to a more secure location in the event Winterfell is overtaken by the dead,” Tyrion explained.

“And where would you have me go?” She had turned back to the camps on the hills outside of Winterfell, her scowl deep. “There’s nowhere safe in the seven kingdoms.”

“Dragonstone, my lady.”

 

* * *

 

The Barrowlands had been unforgiving for the last day and a half as they continued their journey towards King’s Landing. With few trees for shelter, the accommodations had been less than ideal. Arya had set her gaze forward, her lips in a grim line as she got lost in her own thoughts. Sandor tried his best to grumble quietly to himself but with the winds, it was unlikely she could hear him anyhow. 

When they came upon a derelict hut not far from the Kings Road, they took their chances with any potential bandits for the sake of shelter. The late afternoon sky was grey and a light snow had begun falling as they dismounted and walked their steeds towards the crumbling home. It was a small, one room stone building with a thatch roof that was partially intact and had a door that no longer sat on its hinges. 

“We in a graveyard, girl?” Sandor eyed the mounds that dotted the lands around them suspiciously. 

“Barrowlands—it’s all graves in this part of the country,” she informed, tying her horse to a post and walking towards the hut. 

“Don’t like it,” he grumbled to himself, pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders as he followed her.  Being here reminded him too much of the farmer and his daughter they had met years ago, and who he’d put in an early grave, literally. 

He ducked low as he entered the small building, noting its decided lack of amenities. The floor was packed dirt with a small pit in the center that had at one point held warming flames for the occupant. Sandor squinted as he looked up at the broken ceiling, noting the hole for the smoke, as well as the gaps in the thatch where errant snow flakes made their way in. He glared at one as it landed on his arm. 

There was a small pile of fire wood in the corner along with a small table and stool. Sandor picked through the detritus on the floor—broken clay vessels, scraps of itchy wool, a worn religious tome—looking for anything of use or value. In the dim, grey light, he didn’t find anything worth its salt. 

He turned as Arya grunted, setting the last of their belongings on the floor. As he undid their bedrolls and dug around for the wine, he watched her intently. There was something to being in a confined space with her that made his skin prickle. Sure, they had slept mere feet from each other for the better part of a week, and she had spoke with him a couple times in his chambers back at Winterfell, but no space so small. He felt claustrophobic in the little hut, careful of his every move so he didn’t get too close to her. 

But he was grateful for the hut because it kept her out of the elements, if only for a night. He couldn’t explain the fierce desire to continue protecting her. Perhaps there was a bit of guilt he felt for having let her down all those years ago. It was clear she hadn’t needed him, but he had needed her. Maybe there was a familiarity and comfort in being around her. 

From the moment Brienne had told him that the little wolf was still alive, it was as if a piece of him which he’d thought long gone had come back. Until he finally set his eyes on her though, it had sat empty, gnawing at him every day, every night. Much like it had for years until revenge for Ray’s murder clouded his vision. He was glad that the consuming, empty pain had only lasted for a fortnight this time around. He was glad she was safe, and he intended to do everything he could to ensure it.

“Are you hungry?” She asked, apparently for the second time based on her tone, as she held out a hunk of bread and hard cheese for him.

Sandor took the food from her hands, his own calloused fingers brushing her small, long digits in the process. The brief moment of warmth—a warmth that no fire could give—was unsatisfying. He quickly bit off a large piece of the bread and chewed loudly as he tried to ignore the ache in his gut.

“Did you hear about the Frey’s?” He asked through a mouthful of cheese.

Arya raised a thick brow towards him as she chewed. Sandor let out a hearty, short laugh.

“Ah, girl. The whole lot of them, slaughtered.”

He watched as her lips turned up in the corners ever so slightly. 

“Figured you’d be happy about that—no one knows how it happened. Lord Frey, all his sons. Just gone.”

“Poison,” Arya said quietly. 

Sandor regarded her carefully, noting she didn’t seem surprised at this news. “How’d you know?”

“Because I killed every single one of them,” Arya stared at him over the fire, a deadly glint to her eyes.

“Seven hells, she-wolf—I knew _he_ was on your list, but how do you get fifty men to drink the same poison?” He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or anxious for his own safety.

“By taking his face,” she said, a deadpan expression on her face. 

Sandor remembered the conversation with the bastard and the imp in the Winterfell courtyard. The Faceless Men. The House of Black and White. Braavos. 

“It’s how I killed Meryn Trant. And how I’ll kill Cersei,” she explained as she picked at her nails with a small knife she’d pulled from her bootleg. 

“That’s why you wanted to go to Braavos,” he concluded. Arya nodded in response, not looking up from her nails. “Your friend a Faceless Man?”

“He was no one.” 

Sandor squinted at her, trying to understand what she meant. After a moment of silence, she looked up and saw his questioning gaze. She sighed and put the knife back in her boot. 

“I apprenticed with him—he went by the name Jaqen H’ghar—but I don’t know if that was actually his name. The idea is to become no one. Give up who you are, where you came from, your memories, your desires.”

“Seems a bad fit for you,” he suggested, popping the last of the cheese in his mouth. 

“Precisely,” Arya smirked at him; he understood. “My intentions were to give up as much as I had to for however long it took to become one of them. To become no one. Once I had done that, I left, taking faces, potions and lessons with me.”

“And Frey?” Sandor dug through the pack for the wine, this required it. 

“Using the face of a girl I stole from the House, I posed as a servant. Killed two of his sons. Baked them into a pie and served it to him. Then slit his throat after he ate it.”

Her eyes were dark, reflecting only death as she looked at him. He knew, looking back on this moment at a later time, it would be one he never forgot. The chill that came over him when she looked at him with those cold, steel grey eyes and spoke in such a detached but satisfied tone went to his core. She took pleasure in the kill perhaps more than he ever had; and killing was the one thing that had brought him pleasure. Sandor let out a bark of laughter in an effort to quell his own discomfort before tipping the wineskin back, deep. 

“That’s proper fucked, wolf-girl.”

“The North Remembers,” she echoed, somewhat hollowly as she picked up the book he had tossed aside earlier. 

Arya thumbed through the pages quickly, until she happened upon a section on the Stranger. She ran her fingers over the words as she spoke.

“At the end of it all, we all face the Many-Faced God. Staring out from the weirwood trees as the unnamed old gods, in the bottom of the sea as the Drowned God, feeding men to flames as the Lord of Light,” Arya was saying softly. Sandor watched her intently, the wineskin limp in his hand.

“At the House of Black and White, men came from all reaches of the world to beg his favor and seek his gift. Sometimes for themselves if their life had grown difficult, sometimes for others who were making it so. We did not discriminate, only took a name and gave it to the Many-Faced God, for all men must serve and all men must die.”

Arya carefully tore the lone page that spoke of the Stranger out of the worn book and neatly began folding it in half, then half again. Pocketing the page, she looked over the outside of the book before tossing it into the fire, watching as sparks shot into the air around them. Sandor flinched, only slightly. 

“Death is the only thing all men know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit lighter on Arya + Sandor than past chapters, but they have plenty of adventures in store, including a few meetings neither of them are expecting.


	8. unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell gets unexpected guests. Arya and Sandor run into unexpected travelers.

 

**08\. unexpected.**

 

 _And I said, "Hey, what's on your mind?"_  
_I think about my life without you and I start to cry_  
_And I said, "Hey, it's alright"_  
_We'll make it. I love you and I'll never leave your side_  
**[ \- Circles, Pierce the Veil  ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

 

“Why did you come with me, anyway?”

Sandor eyed the little wolf from the other side of the fire, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hadn’t admitted to himself what had happened at the farmer’s house months ago with Beric and Thoros, when he looked into the flames. It wasn’t just the wall of ice, the castle by the sea. It wasn’t just the arrowhead mountain. It wasn’t just the dead marching. 

Once Beric had finished talking to him about prophecy and all that non-sense, he had stared at the flames some more, but hadn’t told them what was there. That he saw a wolf, a wolf with golden eyes. He saw the farmer and his daughter across the table from him. He saw the mountains of the Vale. He saw the same piercing grey eyes that watched him now. It’s what led him out into the snow storm that night, to bury the dead. It’s what led him North despite having unfinished business with his brother. Guilt plagued him as he recalled what he’d done to the farmer and his daughter. When he thought about what could have happened to the little wolf when he couldn’t protect her, guilt had plagued him then as well. And now he had a chance to redeem himself.

_‘Gods aren’t done with you yet.’_

But he knew he couldn’t tell her he was there for her. The stubborn wolf-bitch would never want someone telling her she wasn’t capable of handling herself, even if that wasn’t his intention. Not then, not now. That much he knew for sure. 

“To rid the world of the shit-stain that is my brother,” he said as if it were obvious. 

Arya cocked a dubious brow at him, unconvinced. She watched as Sandor turned his nose up at the snow that had begun to fall. 

“It’ll be a cold one tonight,” he said, trying to change the subject. 

They were a day’s ride from Moat Cailin where Arya was sure they’d be welcomed by the Reed’s. Unfortunately, the storm wasn’t going to wait for them to get there. Just off the Kingsroad they’d found a grove of trees to shelter them for the night. It protected them from the snow for the most part, but as the winds had picked up and the temperature had dropped,it could only do so much. 

Arya placed a few more logs on the fire, stoking it as the embers glowed a bright, angry red. They’d have to keep the fire going throughout the night if they didn’t want to be frozen corpses by morning. A rush of wind blew through their campsite, howling like the wail of a widow in the trees around them. 

Sandor pulled his cloak and furs tight around himself as he settled in for the night. Arya watched as he shifted on the cold ground, trying to get warm and comfortable. 

“We’d be better off if we slept next to each other,” she reasoned, a stony expression on her face. 

He turned back to face her and eyed her through the flames. She had a point, it would be warmer if they slept next to each other under the furs and blankets, but that didn’t make it any more comfortable of an idea. 

“I’ll take my chances, girl,” he seemed to bark at her in distaste as he turned back over. He wondered if he was convincing.

“You’re going to freeze. I’m going to freeze,” Arya asserted, but did not move from her perch across from him. 

“Then it’ll be one less mouth to feed,” he growled defiantly. When he’d held her after they sparred the first time in Winterfell, it took all he had to let her go when all he wanted to do was hold on forever. It was a feeling that caught him off guard, that he didn’t understand any more than his fierce need to protect her. 

The first time he saw her in the Great Hall at Winterfell, he’d realized how much she’d matured. She wasn’t the awkward, brash child he’d looked after so many years ago, she was a young woman now. Her rounded face had sharpened with experience, her hips and breast held a soft, warm curve, her eyes bore into his soul. And he’d found himself thinking about her in a way he’d never considered before. 

He heard Arya sigh in resignation and settle onto her own bedroll. After a few moments, the only sounds he heard were the crackling fire behind him and the howling wind above him. Sandor drifted off to sleep, trying his best to not think about how cold he truly was. 

It felt like it had only been a few minutes, but it must have been a few hours. Suddenly he was being gently kicked as something was tossed down next to him. 

“Hey,” Arya called, sternly. “Move over.”

Sandor blinked up at her. “What are you doing, girl?” he growled, groggily. 

“I can’t sleep over the chattering of your teeth,” she said as she settled onto her bedroll, right next to him. 

“I’m not chattering,” he said stubbornly as he eyed her warily. 

“Like hell you’re not,” she said as she laid her blankets and furs over the both of them. “If I can hear you over the wind, you’re cold.” 

Arya lifted his own blankets and scooted close to him, forcibly moving his arm so she could push herself against his body. Sandor froze as she adjusted herself, her back to his side. He quietly swallowed the lump in his throat as she settled in, pulling the furs close around her. 

“We’ll be warmer if you aren’t on your back,” she called over her shoulder, fumbling for his arm and pulling it over her. 

He moved to his side, his front against her back. The sound of the winds wailing was lost on him as the blood pounded in his ears. He was definitely warm now as he tried to keep enough distance between their bodies. Perhaps not for the reason she had intended.

“Isn’t that better? Now go to sleep,” she said, her eyes closing with a sigh. 

Sandor laid there, his arm draped over her, wisps of her hair tickling his nose, the warmth of her body achingly close to his own. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the involuntary thoughts out of his head and instead focus on trying to steady his breathing so he could fall asleep.

It was better, he had to agree inwardly. So much better.

 

* * *

Jon was making his way across the yard when he froze mid-step, a stable boy almost colliding with him. He looked up at the sky, his eyes searching the clouds. There had been a very noticeable change in the temperature just then as the snow began falling quicker. No one else seemed to be aware of the change. 

Looking around the yard, he saw Tormund near the gate. He had stopped as well, and was watching Jon, his eyes wide. Tormund felt it too. Frantically, Jon ran towards him.

“Get your men ready, blow the horns,” Jon ordered, clasping the man on the shoulder briefly before running towards the Great Keep. 

Sansa sat in her chambers with Brienne, going over the details of the party who would reluctantly head to Dragonstone. As they reviewed the supplies being readied, they were interrupted by the sound of a horn out on the battlements. 

Brienne met Sansa’s gaze, terror briefly blazing in both their eyes before regaining composure. 

“We need to get everyone together, _now_ ,” Sansa realized, standing and making her way to the door. 

“We aren’t ready, yet!” Brienne explained anxiously as she began following her down the stairs. 

“There’s no other choice. If the horns are going off, that means they are here. There’s a chance we can get out before the attack. Go get Bran and Sam. Bring them to the East Gate,” Sansa ordered as they reached the bottom of the stairs. 

As Brienne left with her orders, Jon approached. 

“Are you ready, sister?” Jon put his hands on Sansa’s shoulders. 

There was a distant look of fear in her eyes as she stared back at him. “No, but we don’t have any other choice.”

“I’ve ordered ten men to go with the group, to get you safely to White Harbor. The supplies are being put on a cart now, another one readying for you all,” he explained as they walked towards the door. 

They paused at the door, hearing the commotion in the courtyard just outside. Sansa pulled Jon into a fierce hug, squeezing her eyes closed to push the tears away. She had to be strong for the people outside. She was the Lady of Winterfell. She was no longer a little bird, she was a wolf.

“You’ll always be my brother,” Sansa said into his furs, squeezing him.

“You say that like you’ll never see me again,” Jon said with a small smirk, pulling away. 

Sansa sighed. “Our family is being pulled apart again.” 

Jon opened the door, a rush of cold air hitting their faces. 

“We’ll be back together again, soon. I promise.” He felt a twinge as he remembered his father’s own promise to him the last time he saw him. 

As Sansa readied her group, Jon went the opposite direction, yelling directions to the men in the yard. Over head, Rhaegal and Drogon screeched, circling the castle. Sansa could see the Dragon Queen atop the larger one as she climbed onto the horse-drawn carriage with the others. 

Outside the walls of Winterfell, the Unsullied, Dothraki, Wildling and Northern Armies began getting into formation. Grey Worm stood at the front of the lines with Jorah, Tormund and Jon, watching the cloud of snow approach. Jon frowned. Something was off. 

The rush of snow moved closer and squinting, Jon could see the faint shapes of dead soldiers moving towards them, slowly. Quickly, he swung himself up on his horse and galloped behind the first line of defense.

“Archers ready your bows!” Jon yelled as he rode by the flaming braziers in front of the men. 

The men held their arrows over the flames, ready to ignite them. Ahead there was a long line of pitch that surrounded the northern edge of the fields outside Winterfell. 

“Knock!”

The dead moved closer to the target line as the flaming arrows were lit and placed into position. 

“Loose!” 

An explosion of fiery arrows lit up the sky, rising to a precipice before plummeting towards their target. As the dead continued forward, the first line of them began crossing the pitch. The arrows hit the ground rapidly, a staccato of sizzling thuds as fire met icy bones where it missed the pitch. The ground lit up, an eruption of flames that engulfed the dead in flames. 

With angry screams, the dead began running towards the front lines of Winterfell’s forces with inhuman speed. Their dead blue eyes were vacant yet raging as another line of arrows rained down on them.

The blood riders yipped and kicked their horses into a gallop, moving quickly past the front lines and towards the screaming dead. Jumping onto their saddles with a precision that in any other situation Jon would have taken a moment to admire, they readied their arakhs and bows. Yips and yells hung in the cold, still air as the riders collided with the dead, slicing heads and limbs with dragonglass edged weapons. Another round of fire-tipped arrows rained down further into the army of the dead. Men on both sides began falling.

Jon looked around for the White Walkers, noting they’d be high on their horses, but saw none. Something was definitely off. The Northern forces on horseback had started towards the army of the dead, colliding like a crash of waves with dragonglass weapons finding bone and rotted flesh in the flurry. 

The storm died down and the dead stopped moving. Jon met Tormund’s wide eyed look as they heard the screech coming from the air. It wasn’t behind him where Daenerys circled, it was in front of them. Through the clouds they caught the shadow in the sky. 

Viserion. 

“Pull back!” Jon yelled, kicking into a gallop as their forces started to retreat. “Pull back!”

A horn blew a long, hollow note and Jon watched as Daenerys and Drogon turned and made their way towards where he was. 

From the other side of Winterfell, on the back of the carriage, Sansa watched as a bolt of blue rained down on the fields. The blue flame of an ice dragon.

 

* * *

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was escorting a maiden,” Jaime shot a sly glance to the shivering sell sword riding beside him. 

“It’s been three days since we’ve had a proper meal, a proper bed or a proper drink. And don’t get me started on the lack of women,” Bronn cursed. “A man’s allowed to want comfort.”

Jaime turned to him indignantly. “You didn’t have to come. Could have just waited it out in King’s Landing where it’s warmer.”

“And get roasted when the Dragon Queen finds out your cunt of a sister betrayed her? I’ll take my chances with a bit of frostbite,” Bronn bristled from atop his horse, puffing out his chest. 

Jaime felt a pang of something in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn’t sure if it was anger, sadness, or remorse. Maybe all three. Maybe it was just hunger. Leaving his sister—his lover, his twin, his other half—had been difficult and he had tried to avoid any conversation that would lead to any mention of her since the sell sword had joined on his journey. But Jaime couldn’t fault Bronn; without his incessant complaining and ridiculous stories, he’d probably have gone crazy by now.

“I told you, we’ll hit an inn soon,” Jaime tried to placate. 

“Aye, you said that yesterday. How soon is soon?” Bronn glared at him. 

They were almost in the Neck now, just east of the Twins. The area was lightly wooded and had kept the cold winds manageable. A heavy dusting of snow laid on the ground of the forest though, Winter was definitely moving south, and fast. Through the trees Jaime noticed the shape of a small inn off in the distance. 

“Soon is very soon,” Jaime said, nodding in the direction of the stone building.

Bronn squinted, following Jaime’s nod. A small, satisfied grin made its way onto the sell sword’s face. “Aye, soon _is_ soon.”

As they arrived, Jaime noted several other horses tied up in the yard, two of which looked to be well bred. Perhaps it was Brienne and Podrick, he thought hopefully.

“Let’s see what sort of piss they have for ale,” Bronn waggled an eyebrow at Jaime as he made his way to the door of the inn.

 

* * *

The snow had begun picking up as they continued south. Despite having the icy blood of the wolf running through her veins, Arya had been born in summer, and even she was starting to get uncomfortable with their continued exposure. They had been fortunate to have friends at Moat Cailin, offering them a reprieve from the cold after several days of camping out in the open. Meera had asked hopefully about Bran and the Reed’s had been warm and gracious hosts. 

Now, they were about a week’s ride south of Moat Cailin, and hadn’t seen a solid wall since. The small inn, despite it’s less than ideal crowd of patrons, had been a welcome change to the cold ground, icy water and stale bread. 

Arya and Sandor sat next to each other, watching the group of rowdy men from their mugs incredulously. Sandor had noticed one of the men eyeing Arya with a sleazy, crooked grin. He watched as the man turned to one of his friends for a moment before both turned to eye them. 

The men stood and sauntered over, sitting down. Their mugs hit the table with a heavy thud as though they couldn't quite gauge the distance.

“What’s a pretty lil’ thing like you doin’ wit’ a ugly mug like this’n?” One of the men sneered in Arya’s direction. 

“Ah, she ain’t _that_ pretty, Rulf,” the other one said, scrutinizing her. “But this one sure is ugly.” 

Both men laughed. “What you say, let us ‘ave a go at ‘er?”

Sandor eyed them for a moment before turning to look at Arya who looked up at him with the same cold, expressionless face he had. Like looking in a mirror. 

“I never was good at sharing,” Sandor said finally, taking a deep drink from the horn of ale in front of him. 

“Now’s as good a time as any,” one of the men suggested.

“You’d be smart to walk away,” Arya said sternly.

The grimy men chuckled heartily. “Little bitch should keep her mouth shut. You ain’t teach her that?” The one named Rulf looked over at Sandor with a frown. 

“She’s stubborn,” he shrugged. “I don’t like when my toys are played with. Best listen.” 

“Aw come on, we just wanna play for a bit,” Rulf reached across the table and grabbed Arya’s wrist tightly. 

Before Sandor even knew what was happening, the man who’d grabbed her was screaming as a dagger sank into his forearm and was buried in the wood of the table. 

“I said,” Arya met the man’s gaze with cold grey eyes as she pulled the dagger out of his arm. “Walk away.” Blood spurted everywhere as the man clamored to stop the bleeding. 

The other man pulled a knife from his hip as he stood. Sandor towered over the small, drunk man. Arya had pulled Needle from her hip and held it behind her back, watching as the stabbed man seethed. 

“Little bitch,” he growled, readying his poorly crafted sword with his good arm. 

The inn had grown silent as the four of them stared at each other. Arya maintained her deadpan expression save for the tiniest hint of a smirk in the corner of her mouth. Rulf lunged at Arya, swinging his sword high, his eyes going wide when he caught air as she ducked his swing. 

The other man stumbled towards Sandor, lunging with the blade he held. Sandor chuckled, this wasn’t even worthy of his sword. He grabbed the man’s arm as it came towards him, pulling him into the air with a yelp. The knife fell from the man’s grip, dropping into Sandor’s free hand. The man dangled in the air, whimpering at the tight grip on his arm. With a firm jab into the man’s chest, he fell to the ground. 

Next to him, Arya stood over the other man, Needle firmly pressed against his chest. 

“I did tell you to walk away,” she said menacingly, watching the man’s eyes go wide as she pushed the thin blade into his heart. With a gurgle, the life drained from the man. 

“Not too bad, wolf-girl,” Sandor praised. It was the first time he’d seen her in any sort of action outside of sparing at Winterfell. While it was only against a couple of drunks, he noted her speed and calculation with admiration.

Before she could say anything, the door to the inn swung open and two men walked in. Arya eyed them with venom in her eyes. 

Jaime and Bronn stared at the scene in front of them. Two men lay dead on the ground, with two people that neither of them had expected to see, standing over the bodies. Sandor grabbed his mug and took a deep drink, eyeing the sell sword and Kingslayer. Arya wiped her blades clean, sheathing Needle, but holding onto the dagger tightly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bronn sighed. 

“The hell you doing here?” Sandor growled. “Shouldn’t you be with your cunt of a sister?”

Jaime just blinked at them for a moment, still comprehending what was happening in front of him. “Is that… Arya Stark?” Jaime looked back and forth between the two of them.

Arya glared at the men, stepping towards them. “I should cut your throat, _Kingslayer_. Just like I did Walder Frey’s.” 

“Girl—” Sandor grabbed her arm, pulling her back. 

Arya ripped her arm from his grasp, glaring at Sandor. “You were there! You saw what they did to my brother, you heard what they did to my mother. The Lannisters have conspired with the Frey’s since the beginning, why should _this_ one get special treatment?”

Sandor stepped forward, placing his hand on her shoulder gently. “Because the Lannister’s are helping with the Great War.”

Jaime and Bronn exchanged an uncomfortable look, not looking forward to breaking the news to the two killers who stood in front of them.

“Ah,” the sell sword coughed. “Perhaps we should discuss this over a few mugs,” Bronn suggested.


	9. do you remember?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's not right in Winterfell. Arya and Sandor seemingly retrace old paths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very Arya/Sandor heavy chapter. And slightly longer than they have been in the past. Enjoy!

 

**09\. do you remember?**

 

_As I recall with my stomach turning_  
_I was hiding away from myself, away from you_  
_Like nothing, though something was terribly wrong_  
_And I admit that I was only waiting for the right time_  
_Night time, the right moment for you to look away_  
_Though you never did, I pretended for a while  
_ _So I could walk where I don't belong_

_And I remember every word you said_  
_Come back in time, come back_  
_And I remember I would soon be dead_  
_Now so pitiful, so pitiful_  
**[— Pitiful, Blindside](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

Brienne watched from the battlements as the two sides clashed in the storm, a flurry of Dothraki screams, howls from the dead and then, suddenly, a streak of blue through the sky. She had ducked down as the flame—she wasn’t even sure if it was a flame—obliterated a line of their defense before the thunder of Drogon’s wings came from overhead.

She heard Jon yell and the men began retreating as Drogon approached, setting the wights on fire with a shriek. Rhaegal continued in his path, fiery destruction in his wake. Brienne watched as Drogon flew off after the Night King, out over the Wolfswood. She blinked as the smoke stung her eyes, rubbing them and then looking out over the field. All of the dead were… dead. 

_This is peculiar_ , she thought. The army of the dead was but a few hundred soldiers, now all ash on the hills. Perhaps Lady Sansa shouldn’t have left yet, perhaps Brienne had been rash in her decision to stay behind. 

_Sansa met her at the East Gate, where two carts were being prepared. On one was an assortment of goods: food, clothing, weapons. On the other, several people were climbing on, under the cover of a tent-like structure. Missandei, Davos and Varys had already boarded, and Sam was kissing Gilly and Little Sam goodbye. Bran was locked in a vision, his eyes white, as he was lifted into the cart. Podrick was helping to load the front cart. Tyrion had opted, at the last moment, to stay behind to offer his support to his Queen and be there when his brother arrived._

_“Lady Sansa, if I may have a word,” Brienne asked quietly, as though she was ashamed._

_“Brienne, I’m not sure if now is the right time,” Sansa said as she began passing her in a hurry._

_“Lady Sansa,_ please _,” Brienne said sternly._

_Sansa turned to meet Brienne’s pleading blue eyes and raised a delicate brow in question._

_“If I may, I would like to stay behind at Winterfell,” Brienne started. “If what you said is true, and Ser Jaime is coming to Winterfell, I need to be here when he arrives. They’ll see him as the traitor’s brother, not the honorable man I have come to know.”_

_Brienne watched the snow hit her boots, ashamed of her words. How could she know what honorable was when she stood before the woman she swore to protect, asking to leave her? She jumped slightly as Sansa clasped Brienne’s hands between hers. Brienne met Sansa’s clear azure eyes with her own questioning gaze._

_“Lady Brienne, you have served me honorably,” Sansa said, warmth in her voice. “And I look forward to having you in my service again, should you wish. The Long Night is upon us, and much like I told my sister, we have to take advantage of the opportunities to be close to the ones we care about and who care about us._

_Brienne felt her cheeks get warm at the thought of Jaime Lannister caring about her. She did not think that so, but if she could offer him any support, she would._

_Sansa stepped back with a final squeeze to the tall woman’s gloved hands, her face soft as she regarded her with a smile. Brienne had no words for her generosity and simply bowed before turning to go inside to help where she could._

Brienne looked around the field at the confused men below. There was an odd sense of relief and anxiousness that charged the air—would the Night King return? Where had Drogon flown off to with Daenerys? 

She ran down the stairs from the battlements, meeting Pod in the yard. 

“Pod, what’s happening?” she asked frantically. 

“Word is they retreated, my lady,” Pod said breathlessly. 

Sure enough, the Night King had retreated after only sending a couple hundred of his soldiers to Winterfell. Later, as the war council met, Jon determined that it must have been to test their defenses and scope out the area. Dany had turned back after chasing Viserion for awhile, not wanting to risk herself or another dragon. The group sat around the table solemnly looking at the map.

“He went north for a bit, and then turned east,” she informed them. 

“Likely to Last Hearth or Karlhold,” Jon surmised. “It’s possible the holds have been evacuated, both are near water. We’ll see what word comes from White Harbor.”

“All the Free Folk we brought south of the wall are likely dead, if they haven’t made it here yet,” Tormund said somberly.

“Aye, the Gift is lost,” Jon frowned. “I imagine Castle Black will be gone soon, if it’s not already. We haven’t received a raven from there in weeks, right Sam?”

“Correct. Last was word of Tormund and Gendry heading here,” Sam glowered, anxiously wringing his hands. He wanted nothing more than to head south with Gilly and Little Sam, but the castle needed every maester, or drop-out maester, they could get. 

“We’ll need to keep lookouts up the road to send word of the army of the dead heading this way. We don’t know when they’ll attack with full force,” Grey Worm offered. 

“Those who left to head to White Harbor are not too far off, only a couple hours. We _could_ bring them back, Bran would prove valuable in the location of the Night King,” Dany suggested. “I know you sent them away for their own safety, but we need every arrow in the quiver, so to speak.” 

Jon thought about his brother and sister’s safety. He thought about the safety of the North, of Westeros as a whole. Was risking a few lives worth saving thousands? “Of course. We’ll send riders to bring them back.”

“Your Grace, I’d be happy to make that trek,” Brienne spoke up. 

“Thank you, Lady Brienne. Please make your leave to get them back as soon as possible,” Jon ordered, watching as she left the room.

“Ah, Jon,” Sam interjected. “I have an update on my weapons research.” 

Jon nodded for him to continue. 

“There are two things. First, regarding the weapon that was used on Drogon. I found a diagram of a weapon that seems to fit the description and with our pressed timeline, I think we should begin building.”

“Aye, we should. We’ll have the forge begin making dragonglass spear-tips for it,” Jon said. 

“And secondly. I was trying to think of ways that we could make the best use of the shards of dragonglass that are being wasted as of now as the weapons are being made. We have several catapults, I think we should find a way to create a timed explosion with the shards inside,” Sam suggested, apprehensively. 

“Then we could hit them from a distance,” Jorah mused. “It wouldn’t necessarily kill them—it could—but it would definitely hurt their ranks.” 

“Work with the cooper and the head of artillery to sort out the details,” Jon ordered Sam. “Unless there is any other news, back to your posts.”

The room cleared, save for Dany. Jon sighed and rubbed his eyes with one of his hands. Without the Lannister forces, he wasn’t sure they would be able to defeat the dead. And without Bran there, he had no insight into where they were. 

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Jon admitted. “If he’s taking over the North, he’ll have more than 100,000 troops. We have a quarter of that without the Lannister army.”

Dany came to stand by him, looking over the war table. Things had been tense between the two of them since they’d arrived in Winterfell. At first she thought it was the incoming threat, but now that they’d been settled for a few weeks preparing, it felt different. As much as she wanted to press the issue, it didn’t seem now was right.

“But we have two dragons, _and_ the will to live,” she said, placing her hand atop his on the table, squeezing lightly. Her purple eyes seemed on fire as they looked into his. Sometimes Jon wondered if she wasn’t truly made of flames.

 

* * *

There had been nothing she could do. Every ounce of her being had wanted to slice open the Kingslayer’s pretty neck, to watch the Lannister man suffer his last breaths through a gurgle of his own blood as she looked down at him. But between Sandor’s constant hand on her shoulder and the simple fact that Jaime and Bronn needed to get North to tell Jon about the lack of Lannister forces coming to their aide, she had sat there in relative silence, brooding over the mug of ale. 

That was five days ago. They had traveled a bit quicker now that the snows had subsided and the road was not as difficult to traverse. It was still quite cold and windy, but they made good progress, hoping to reach the Crossroads by nightfall.

“Do you remember this place?” Arya turned in her saddle to look back at him. He was scowling, as usual, from between the wolf’s fur that lined his shoulders. She thought it was a good look for him. 

Sandor squinted at the brightness around him. As far as he could see there were rolling, white hills and bare, scraggly trees reaching towards the sky like the fingers of a dead man. Off in the distance towards the east, he could see a small castle, but otherwise, nothing notable. 

“Fucking snow?” He turned back to her, his brow twisted in confusion. “This a trick, girl?”

Arya pointed off towards where the Trident was in the distance. At this point, it was likely frozen, but years ago it was warm. The grass was soft, the sun bright, the trees singing with birds. She had searched for rubies in the shallow waters with the butcher’s boy. She had sparred with him, with sticks. And everything had been fine until _Joffrey_ showed up. 

“That’s where I sparred with Mycah, the day Joffrey got bit by Nymeria,” she turned towards him and watched as his face went soft. 

Arya then pointed towards the castle in the east. “And that’s where you brought him, slung over your horse like a deer.” 

Sandor frowned at the castle. “Girl, I—”

“No, no,” Arya waved her hand, interrupting him as she turned, pulling her horse to a stop. Sandor stopped as well. 

“My point is, things have changed,” she said, her grey eyes sincere. “You protected me when I was a stupid little girl. I took you off my list because you took care of me even when there wasn’t a coin to be made. I couldn’t offer you the mercy of death because I had forgiven you and didn’t want you dead anymore.”

“You were stupid,” he mused, leaning to the side as she tried to swipe at him. 

“Ass.”

“I said _were_. Haven’t been around you enough to know if you still are,” Sandor said. 

There was a nagging in the pit of her stomach that seemed to suggest that she hoped he would be around long enough to make that determination. Arya’s lips pressed into a hard line as she looked out over the fields, deep in thought. She turned and regarded him for a moment, her eyes growing soft.

“You know, what I said back in the Vale,” he started, looking down at where his hands held the reins of his horse. “I didn’t mean any of that. About the stinkin’ saddle, or your sister. I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

Sandor looked out over the hills around them, noting the desolation and complete nothingness of Winter. He hoped to live to see Spring. As long as he could keep her alive longer than him, he would be content.

“Thank you,” she said at last, the words feeling unusual as they rolled off her tongue. To her, offering gratitude showed weakness. Perhaps she didn’t need to always be so on guard with him around.

“Any time, little wolf,” Sandor said earnestly, meeting her gaze. And he truly meant it.

The smallest tug of a smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she thought about how much things had changed since that day years ago. If someone would have told her she would be standing here, going off to kill the queen with the man that had killed her friend, she would have laughed her innocent little heart out. As it was, she was glad he was by her side.

“Now let’s get moving—I’d like to not sleep on the ground tonight,” Sandor grumbled, gently kicking the sides of his black courser.

Arya watched for a moment as he trotted off, smiling to herself. Looking around the Riverlands, she breathed the cold, fresh air deep into her lungs before following.

 

* * *

The inn at the Crossroads was much like it had been when she’d been there mere months ago, save for the healthy layer of snow they crunched through as they approached. Dismounting, they led their horses to the stable and walked towards the inn. 

“Remember the last time you were here?” Arya realized that was the moment that everything changed. What would things have been like if the Hound hadn’t been captured? She wouldn’t know the man that stood before her, that was for sure.

_‘Looks like every other shit inn on the road.’_

Sandor looked up at the two story stone building. The yard was a nasty mess of mud from the trampled snowfall, the barren trees surrounding them making a noise that sent a shiver down his spine as they scraped against the side of the building. 

“Aye. That cunt archer brought me here.”

“How did they…?” Arya’s thick brows knitted together in confusion.

“I was deeper in my cups than I’d been in ages, at another inn down the road,” Sandor chuckled. “When you tell the King to go fuck himself, I suppose getting pissed that close to home is a bit daft.”

“Guess I know the secret now,” Arya noted, her face expressionless. 

“Planning on stealing me away somewhere, wolf-girl?” he asked in jest, before grabbing for the door. 

They found themselves a seat in a dim corner. The inn was bustling with travelers heading all directions, but mostly south, away from the coming storm. Most of them didn’t know what truly awaited them in the snow. 

The majority of the tables were full and the loud hum of chatter enveloped the room. There were a lot of things that Sandor Clegane was learning to suffer as he got older: children, cold weather, lack of a good drink. But crowds were one that he wasn’t sure he’d ever grow accustom to. So when they sat down, he focused all his attention on the pie and ale in front of him. A full stomach and a good buzz would go a long way to making sure he didn’t cuff someone simply for existing.

“Arry!”

Arya looked up from her kidney pie to see the plump cook ambling towards them. Sandor eyed her questioningly, getting an apologetic shrug in return. 

“Hi, Hot Pie,” Arya smiled as she took a drink from her mug.

“I didn’t expect t’ see you down this way so soon after you went up t’ Winterhell—”

“Winterfell.”

“Ya’ sure? Anyway. It’s been gettin’ right cold down here too. Never seen snow before,” Hot Pie rambled on.

Hot Pie noticed Sandor looking at him. Sandor groaned inwardly that the boy’s attentions had turned to him.

“Hey, you’re that dog…um—the Hound! Arry, didn’t we meet ‘im ‘ere years ago? You both were gonna get sold t’ Lady Stark in Riverrun when ya left here. What happened?”

Arya nodded, but before she could offer an explanation, Hot Pie continued.

“The Brotherhood didn’t seem to like you much, what with those ropes around you and all,” Hot Pie eyed him, twirling his finger in the air as he mimicked wrapped ropes, oblivious to the growing frustration on the large man’s face.

Sandor glared at him from over his pie, hoping perhaps his cold stare would convince the boy to leave. Arya stared blankly at the plump cook, knowing there was no sense in trying to shut him up. The pie and the ale were good, that’s all she cared about right now. 

“You a knight?” He blinked at him, a hopeful look in his eyes, finally pausing for an answer.

Arya smirked and looked over at Sandor expectantly. Sandor took a deep drink of his ale as he regarded the boy. 

“No, boy. I’m no knight,” he said finally, with a long sigh.

“Ah. Well, you were wearin’ armor’s all.”

“Hot Pie,” Arya sighed, looking sternly at the cook. “Gendry and I went over this with you. Just because someone has armor doesn’t mean they’re a knight.”

“Where’d you hear that, boy?” Sandor made a face.

“Some man in armor. Figured since ‘e was a knight, ‘e knew what ‘e was talkin’,” Hot Pie explained. 

“He was smart, protecting himself. That’s it,” Sandor replied, flicking at the metal that sat upon his chest. 

“Think ‘e died not long after,” Hot Pie mused. “Things have been pretty—”

“You got any more ale?” Sandor interrupted, anything to get the boy to leave them alone.

“Ah yea, sure thing. You sure are a thirsty lot,” Hot Pie stood and made his way off towards the other side of the inn. 

Sandor glanced sideways at Arya through his hair. She shrugged sheepishly.

“At least the food and ale is free,” she pointed out. 

Arya sat quietly with her fingers wrapped around the mug of ale in front of her. A chill ran through her as more patrons entered the inn. Even she, a proud Stark of Winterfell, wanted to go someplace warmer.

“What do you think is west of Westeros?”

Sandor scoffed. “There's nothing, girl.”

“There has to be something,” she said wistfully. “I want to find out one day.”

They discussed the possibilities west of Westeros over a few more mugs, listening to another one of Hot Pie’s stories before finally retiring to their room. With so many winter travelers, the rooms were hard to come by and they’d had to share one. Neither complained; it was a warm room with dry bedding, even if there was only one bed. 

A fire roared in the small hearth, tossing a warm glow on the stone and plaster walls. Other than a small table with a wash basin, the bed was the only thing in the room. And like everything else in the room, it too was small. When they had dropped their things on the floor, they both looked around the room, realizing its diminutive size. 

Given it’d likely be their last chance at a real bed until they got to King’s Landing, false modesty would serve them no use tonight. Arya shrugged at the bed and began removing her sword belt, cloak, brigandine and mail. She sat on the edge of the bed and toed off her boots before climbing up onto the bed in her trousers and tunic. 

“Just pretend we’re going to freeze to death, it’s basically the same thing,” she smirked up at him, patting the bed. 

Sandor didn’t need to pretend anything. He knew he’d be laying next to her again and the thought of doing so in a comfortable setting where one would be likely to lower their guard—particularly after a few too many ales—made his stomach twist. With an aggrieved sigh, he began undoing the buckles on his armor, cursing under his breath at them. 

“Come here, let me help,” she called over. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and she knelt behind him, deftly undoing the buckles at his shoulder before getting the ones on his side. Arya ran her finger over the mark of the Winterfell blacksmith that was on the back plate of the smooth steel. Leather lined the inside of the armor, still stiff from lack of wear. Sandor had been adamant to have proper plate armor for the upcoming war after seeing what the army of the dead could do. She tapped at his arm and he held it up for her to get at the pieces there. 

“What ever happened to that dog helm? Seemed it would be a bit impractical,” Arya asked as she worked on the buckles. He smelled of leather and earth, steel and ale.

“Bugger that thing,” Sandor scoffed. “Joffrey made me wear it. Little cunt.” 

“I remember when you came to Winterfell for the first time. I had stolen away from my family to watch the procession from outside the gates. When I saw that helm, saw a massive rider atop a giant black stallion, I was awestruck,” Arya said wistfully, remembering how excited she was by all the riders on their horses, swords at their hips. 

“And then I took it off and you realized what an ugly fucker I was,” Sandor huffed, only half joking. 

Arya punched him in the kidney. “You’re not ugly.” 

He turned to her, gesturing at his face roughly. “Like hell I’m not.”

She sat back on her feet, placing her hands in her lap as she watched him in the dim light of the fire. Ironically, the scarred side of his face was lit by its flames. When she’d first arrived in King’s Landing, she remembered the disgusted whispers of Sansa about the _Hound’s_ scars. She had rolled her eyes at her sister’s vain murmurs; his scars had never bothered her, only intrigued her. 

Arya reached out to touch them. She had looked at them so much for the near year they had traveled together, but she was curious as to what they felt like. Quickly, Sandor grabbed her wrist, tight enough to bruise. Had she not been caught in her own thoughts, she could have easily avoided his grasp. A low growl, like a wounded dog, came from his throat as his clenched teeth barred ever so slightly. 

A charged silence fell upon them. His eyes were wild in the glow of the flames, her’s calculated and cool. It was then that he realized how small and warm her wrist was in his very tight grip. The smell of ale was on her breath and he caught himself looking at her mouth and the slight part of her lips. He watched as she bit her lip and he found himself wishing it was his teeth. With a blink, he became aware of how close they were.

Sandor let her wrist go and stood suddenly, his armor clattering to the floor with a loud ring on the stone. Arya blinked as the blood pounded in her ears and her stomach turned to butterflies. She rubbed her wrist, still feeling his warmth beneath the forming bruises. 

For a moment the world seemed to stop as they looked at each other from across the room. Sandor found himself searching her eyes for any hint of warmth but she had put up her shield, cold as the steel of his plate armor. With a sigh, he knelt down to collect the pieces of armor that had fallen. When he stood back up, she was laying down, her back to him as she pressed herself as close to the wall as she could. 

He looked around the room, at a loss for what to do. His options were to sleep on the floor and suffer the consequences the next day when his muscles screamed at him, or pretend like nothing had just happened and share the bed with her. 

Arya made the decision for him. “Come on, don’t waste a good bed,” she called quietly, not moving from her place. 

A cautious smile graced his lips as he watched her small form in the bed. Chewing on his lip in apprehension, he made his way over to the bed and sat on the edge, toeing off his boots. The blanket was itchy wool, but he got under it anyway and felt the warmth of her back against his arm as he closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep next to her once again.


	10. intoxicating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor continue their internal battles over the close circumstances, when things finally break. Jaime arrives in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two long chapters in one weekend! enjoy!

 

**10\. intoxicating.**

 

_Take me high and I'll sing_  
_Oh you make everything okay_  
_We are one in the same_  
_Oh you take all of the pain away_  
_Save me if I become  
_ _My demons_

**[\- My Demons, Starset](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

* * *

Whether it was the buzz of the ale in the night, or the warmth and comfort of the fire, he did not know, but he found himself pressed against her, his arm around her like she had pulled it over some nights before. Her head laid back against his chest, and he could smell the winter in her hair—crisp, fresh and spicy. 

It was just after dawn, a low, warm light came in through the window just above their heads. There was a smokiness in the room from the dead fire that stung his sleep-crusted eyes. He realized he should probably get up, or remove himself from his position but the warmth and abject rightness of it all kept him there. 

Arya sighed in her sleep, shifting ever so slightly against him. She was safe, warm, and comfortable, and so he was content. In the weeks since they’d left Winterfell, the guilt of being unable to protect her all those years had shifted to something of a compassion and attraction that he hadn’t expected. She was wild, unexpected, deadly and, in his eyes, beautiful. He remembered her telling him of the hateful things she’d been called when she was younger and while she had looked quite boyish back when they traveled the Riverlands, she always had a fierce beauty to her. Never the soft, obvious beauty of her sister, but perhaps one more suited for someone like him anyway. 

He mentally scolded himself. Who was he to think he would have any place with her? Not only was he twice her age, but she clearly didn’t seem interested in anything other than revenge and bloodshed. Perhaps that was part of what attracted him to her. There were no songs of knights and maidens, _she_ was the fear men had in their eyes moments before their death. And that was intoxicating.

Her tunic had rolled up slightly on her arm and he found himself mindlessly running a thumb along the soft but scarred skin. 

Arya had been awake for some time. Since she had been blinded, she had developed acute listening skills and knew the moment his breath had changed the slightest bit as he awoke. In front of her was the plaster wall of the room, behind her, Sandor’s warm, large body keeping her safe. 

_I don’t need to be kept safe_ , Arya frowned to herself. But the comfort of another person was not something she had ever truly experienced, not in this way. A hug or kiss on the forehead from Sansa or Jon was not the same as being held close as she laid in bed. Arya’s stomach knotted with butterflies, much like it had when she’d gone to touch his face the night prior. There had been a clear change in their dynamic over the last few days of travel as they’d settled back into a routine similar to the one they had years ago. 

But there were miles—deep chasms—of change between them. Spoken and unspoken thoughts, and feelings that she couldn’t even put into words. The way he looked at her now was so much softer and more human than she’d ever remembered. Perhaps other than that day in the Vale when she’d listened to the story of his scars, he had never looked at her like that again.

That had been the true moment of change. And then she’d had to walk away as he bled out, thinking she’d lost the only person who seemed to care about her at all. 

_‘And that’s what you’re doing, watching over her?’_

_‘Aye, that’s what I’m doing.’_

There had been no reason for him to keep her when Brienne tried to take her and yet he had wanted to. And now, years later, here they lie, together. Arya swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat when she’d felt him run his thumb along her arm. The touch had been deceivingly gentle and she found herself wanting more of it. But this was all a distraction from her goal. 

“We should get moving,” she said suddenly as she rose, sitting up in bed. 

Arya held her knees to her chest, staring out the window. Sandor had been caught off guard by her words, he’d thought she was deep asleep. He sat up on his elbows and watched her back, as her body rose and fell slowly. A part of him wanted to pull her back down and stay there all day, just as they’d been.

“What’s the hurry?” 

She turned to him, a cold, deadly glint in her eyes. “The hurry? Not only did she orchestrate my father’s death, but the longer she lives, the more people die at her hands. She’s an evil woman and doesn’t deserve another moment in this life,” Arya snapped.

“Rushing into the lion’s den’ll just get you killed, girl,” he growled as he sat up. _Well that moment’s over._ The floor was cold as his feet hit it and he found himself missing Winterfell’s underground springs and how warm they made the stone.

Arya glared at his back, but watched in masked fascination. Through the fabric of his tunic, which had loosened at the neck in the night, she watched the muscles in his shoulders and back stretch and bend.

“I don’t need you telling me how to handle this,” she spat back, scooting off the bed and hastily pulling her boots on. 

The stubborn wolf-bitch he’d met all those years ago was rearing her ugly head. She was snapping at him like a wounded animal, something had set her off. Sandor made a face as he dressed himself, fumbling through the buckles of his armor alone, as Arya had already made her way down to the stables to prepare the horses. 

The buckles had taken him longer than it should have and when he came down with his pack, she was impatiently waiting atop her mare. The black horse with the white spot on its chest that she'd picked for him back in Winterfell stood beside her. He buckled his pack to the side and lifted himself into the saddle.

“Took you long enough,” she said cooly as she kicked her horse and turned to head down the path. 

_Never change, wolf girl._

 

* * *

“I suppose we can’t get rid of you that easily, Lady Stark,” Tyrion smirked as he walked into the Great Hall. 

Sansa regarded him from her seat at the head table where she was reviewing paperwork for stocks and deliveries. Her face seemed gaunt, he noticed, as though she wasn’t sleeping very well. Despite this, her eyes were still crystal clear and her luminous auburn hair perfectly plaited, laying over her shoulder neatly. 

“I’m glad we turned back. I didn’t want to go, but the suddenness of it all left me with little choice,” she thumbed through the papers. “My gut told me to stay, and when Brienne said she wanted to stay behind for Jaime, I knew I should have listened to it. Still working on that I suppose.” 

“Why would Brienne want to stay behind for Jaime?” Tyrion leaned against the table opposite her, running his small fingers over the lines of the wood. 

“They spent a good deal of time together, when he was in Robb and Mother’s custody. I believe she was with him when he lost his hand,” Sansa paused her work and clasped her hands together on top of the papers.

Tyrion let out a bark of a laugh, looking wistfully towards the fire behind her. “I wonder if his time being your mother’s captive was any different than mine.” 

“I’d no idea you were hostage to my mother,” Sansa said, surprised. 

“Oh yes, Lady Catelyn was a ruthless woman,” Tyrion chuckled. “It’s how I met Bronn, actually. Sent a Knight of the Vale flying through the moon door.” 

Sansa looked out into the emptiness that was the Great Hall. She longed for the warm feasts filled with laughter and delicious food, friends and loving family. She smiled to herself as she remembered Arya’s antics when King Robert had been here. What she wouldn’t give to go back to that time. 

“I miss her,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. 

Tyrion reached across the table and placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed gently. She did not flinch or pull away, but simply looked down at their hands before looking up at him with those soul piercing blue eyes. 

“Your mother was a ferocious, loyal and strong woman and while I did not know her very long, I have to believe she would be proud of you, Lady Sansa. I can see some of her fire in you,” he said, meeting her gaze. 

Sansa watched him for a moment, thinking back to how poorly she had treated him. Looking down at his hand atop hers again she smiled the smallest of smiles and placed her other hand on top of his. 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion. For everything,” she looked back up at him, a sincere, warm smile on her lips. 

Tyrion gave her hand another squeeze, the glint in his eyes warm and true. He wondered if things were different, or if they made it out of this war alive, if she’d want anything to do with him. Despite her noticed maturity, he doubted it. But that didn’t change the fact that he was hopeful. Hope was the only thing to count on these days. Hope of a better future. 

The door next to the high table opened abruptly and a boy came in to deliver a message. Sansa met Tyrion’s eyes and quickly pulled her hand back, the faintest blush on her cheeks.

“Ah, sorry m’lady. I should have knocked,” he averted his eyes.

“No, no, Mendel. You’re fine, come in. What is it?” Sansa waved him in as she stood, gathering her papers. 

“There are riders, m’lady. From King’s Landing, they say,” the boy said.

Sansa and Tyrion gave each other a knowing look and made their way to the courtyard. As they walked through the people in the yard, Sansa noticed a hushed tension amongst them. Looking ahead, she saw the reason, as she had felt it in the pit of her stomach. 

Atop their breathless steeds, Jaime Lannister and another man Sansa had not met before looked out over the yard with an anxiousness that mirrored her own. She knew the news that was coming, they had already planned for it, and yet she stood before them, just as nervous as if she didn’t know the nature of their visit. 

Jaime and Bronn dismounted their horses and handed the reins off to stable boys. Sansa nodded at the boys to take the horses to the stables.

Jon and Brienne were waiting for them in the yard. Sansa noticed the hopeful but guarded look on the Tarth woman’s face. There were a few hushed whispers behind her as people began to realize who the blonde man was and she truly was not looking forward to this. 

“Lady Sansa, Lord Snow,” Jaime nodded to them both. A restrained smile was given to both Brienne and Tyrion. “This is Ser Bronn, of the Blackwater.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a grin, eyeing the auburn haired beauty. 

“You bring word from King’s Landing, ser?” Sansa spoke up, eager to get this over with. 

Jaime frowned, his body tensing. “Yes, of course. Perhaps we should discuss this in a more… private place.” His green eyes scanned the growing crowd of onlookers, which now included several of the North’s lords. 

“Aye, let’s meet in the Great Hall,” Jon acquiesced. “My lords, allow me a private conversation with Ser Jaime, we will convene soon.” 

Leading the way, Jon took Jaime and Bronn into the Great Hall with Sansa, Tyrion and Brienne. Daenerys had heard word that the Kingslayer had arrived and was waiting for them, absently pressing a wrinkle out of the wool of her deep red coat. As soon as Brienne shut the door, Jon turned around and eyed the Lannister man with anger in his eyes.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just have the Queen’s dragons burn you both alive for coming up here,” he spat. “We know why you’re here. We know Cersei hasn’t sent her forces. So why come?”

Jon was in the man’s face. Jaime Lannister was a good eight inches taller than the Northern bastard, and had it been even a year ago he may have found himself looking down his nose at the shorter man. But as it was, they were on the same side. Jaime sighed.

“Save for the fact that we clearly don’t have an army behind us, how do you know we aren’t sending forces?” Jaime frowned. 

“Because I told them,” Bran said as he was wheeled into the room by Varys. 

Jaime’s eyes went wide and his nostrils flared as he recognized the man in the chair as the same boy he had pushed out of the tower in this very castle years ago. His eyes darted around the room, curious if anyone knew what had transpired between the two of them. Did the boy even remember?

“Bran can see past and present,” Tyrion explained, noting the confused look on his brother’s face. That only made Jaime’s brow furrow more. 

“I saw your conversation in the Red Keep’s courtyard with your sister. The Mountain almost killed you,” Bran continued, his voice and face void of any emotion. 

“Seven hells,” Bronn mumbled to himself, sticking his hands into his sword belt as he regarded the room. “Dragons, dead men walking, boys seeing the past. Maybe we do all live in the eye of a blue-eyed giant.” 

“So why are you here, ser?” Sansa interjected, clearly growing impatient. 

Jaime sighed, looking down at the stone floor for a moment before looking over to Brienne for any sign of reassurance. She offered the faintest hint of a smile in support. He turned to Jon and Daenerys. 

“This fight is not about North or South. It’s not about who’s supposed to be on the throne and who’s not. _This_ fight is about staying alive. My sister—”

“Your lover,” Sansa sneered. 

“Despite her being pregnant,” Jaime continued, his stomach twisting into uncomfortable knots as he recalled their final conversation. “She seems more interested in power than in the lives of those she cares about. While I could not bring her armies North, I’m pledging myself to this fight.” 

“And wherever he goes, I go,” Bronn added, a smug look on his face. “At least until this Lannister pays his debts. Which seem to keep adding up.” 

Jaime frowned at the sell sword but rolled his eyes, returning his attentions back to those in front of him. 

“Are you not the man who killed my father? The Kingslayer? What is one man in a war against thousands?” Daenerys asked, stepping forward. 

Despite the softness of the furs around her shoulders, her face was still hard and serious as she eyed the men in front of her. It was the first time Jaime had gotten a close look at the woman, the daughter of the man he had slain from behind. The crazed fire in those purple eyes was the same one that haunted his dreams. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brienne finger the hilt of her sword in anticipation. Only she truly knew the story of that day. Jaime exhaled, figuring now was as good a time as any to clear the rumors.

“I am sorry, my lady, that I had to kill your father. But let me ask this of you all,” Jaime started as he looked up at the tapestry of the Stark family that hung on the wall opposite the windows of the hall. He walked over to it and after a moment, turned back to them. 

“If your Queen asked you to kill your father, would you? If your Queen told you to burn an entire city, all the men, women and children who had done nothing, would you?”

“I would never ask such a thing,” Daenerys objected.

Jaime smiled smugly to her. “No one thought Aerys would either. He had been a good King for so long. And then one day, something changed. He became obsessed with Wildfire, having the pyromancers of King’s Landing make and place pots of it all over the city. He started mumbling to himself, ‘Burn them all, burn them all.’ He had truly gone Mad.”

“As Robert’s armies advanced, I had begged him to surrender. And what did he ask of me? ‘Bring me your father’s head.’ He then turned to the pyromancers and told them to burn the city down,” Jaime walked back towards the group who eyed him cautiously. 

“So I killed the pyromancers before they could leave the hall. And as Aerys tried to flee, I ran my sword through his back.”

Jaime eyed Daenerys, his eyes soft for a moment as he looked her over. Then he scowled. “And I would do it again, even knowing I’d be forever branded as the _Kingslayer_. The _oath-breaker_.”

The room was uncomfortably silent for awhile, as Jaime looked around at the eyes staring back at him. 

“Now I ask you, are we here to discuss the details of something long gone, that no longer matters? Or are we here to figure out a way to stay alive against this Night King?”

Jaime watched Jon and Daenerys in particular. The dragon queen had looked down, frowning in contemplation. Jon also frowned, but Jaime knew he was battling his condemnable Stark honor. 

“Ser Jaime is right,” Sansa finally spoke up, looking at Brienne briefly before turning to her brother. “He is a seasoned military commander, and we need every person we can get to fight this war alongside us.” 

“But how can he be trusted?” Daenerys finally spoke. 

Tyrion looked up at her. “He arranged for us to meet with Cersei, even after knowing what I’d done to our family. If he didn’t kill me then, what would make him try to kill us all now?”

“Plus, Bran can always keep an eye on any additional threats heading towards Winterfell,” Sansa offered to them. “We would know immediately if we were going to be ambushed.”

Jon seemed to be rolling the decision around in his head, as he looked around the room. He turned to Daenerys, who, with the slightest nod, gave her somewhat reluctant approval.

“We should gather the Northern lords and tell them of this news. Ser Jaime, you will have a room in the Keep and will be safe within our walls,” Jon said at last. 

Jaime sighed in relief, unaware he had been holding his breath as he awaited his sentence. He watched as the crowd dispersed, and Brienne walked up to him.

“Ser Jaime, a word?”

 

* * *

“Would you shut up?” Arya hissed through the bushes. She had been on edge for the last few days, since they’d left the Crossroads.

“I think we’re sitting in poison ivy,” Sandor groaned, scratching his leg through the fabric of his pants. “How long do we have to sit here?”

“Until they pass,” she looked over at him, glaring. 

Sandor didn’t respond. He was moving the leaves around with a stick, pushing it away from himself, but it just smacked back into his leg. 

“Killing five gold cloaks will raise suspicions,” she said, watching as the men walked past. 

They were just outside of King’s Landing, on the outskirts of the small town that surrounded it’s walls. Arya had planned to get to the shores of the Blackwater Rush and entering through the sewers. But now, there were patrol outside the capital’s walls and they had to be extremely careful. 

“They aren’t going to quit their patrol. We need to take care of them, girl,” he said, finally grabbing the weeds and pulling them from the ground. He cursed under his breath as he tossed them to the side. 

One of the men heard the rustle and turned towards the wooded area that bordered the edge of the town. Arya held her breath, but gave Sandor a look that would put anyone else in their grave. The gold cloak called back to the other men to wait a moment. 

Arya looked around, not seeing anyone other than the gold cloaks in the area. If they took them out quietly, perhaps they could avoid suspicion. She wasn’t sure quiet was in Sandor’s vocabulary when it came to fighting.

“Stay here,” Arya whispered before she made her way through the bushes, rustling the leaves and drawing the man’s attention elsewhere. 

The assassin disappeared into the foliage, but Sandor was not about to let her go off to a fight without help. He disentangled himself from the weeds he sat in and started to follow.

“What you doing here, girl?” The gold cloak asked, suspiciously eyeing her fine clothing. Arya had pulled her cloak around her weapons at least, so as to not drawn more suspicion. 

“Just foraging, ser,” she said innocently. 

“You don’t look like no peasant,” another man surmised as he rested his hand on his sword. 

Arya looked over the men in front of her. Five men, all with mail and castle-forged steel. But only mail, not plate armor. From the looks of it, most were fairly green in their skills, but two of the men looked formidable. 

“Speak up, girl, or we’ll take you to the stocks,” another one growled.

“You’re right, I’m no peasant,” she said with a sigh, before quickly drawing Needle and jabbing it into the neck of the man closest to her. He fell with a bloody moan, clutching at his neck in surprise.

The other men drew their swords, but Arya had pulled the dagger and flung it directly into the eye of another one of the men. She edged around them as they held their swords at length, her own sword at her back, ready to attack. Three left. 

Her ear twitched as she heard Sandor come from the brush, his sword drawn as he came beside her. 

“Told you I’d handle this,” she growled quietly. 

“Seems like it’s going well,” he noted the two men bleeding out on the ground. 

Arya and Sandor split up, one of the men going after Arya, the other two after the larger man. She easily ducked and sidestepped the gold cloak’s swings, which just made him angrier. And angry men didn’t think clearly. 

One of the men that had come towards Sandor was clearly a seasoned fighter, while the other looked like he’d never swung a sword at a real person before. The younger one made the first move, swinging low as Sandor met his sword. The other man swung high as Sandor just barely met the swing. With his back to the younger man, even for a second, he was hit along his arm, the clang of metal against his armor ringing in the cold air. 

Arya looked over as the sound came, suddenly finding herself concerned for his safety. With her attention somewhere else, she barely missed ducking the soldier’s swing. She turned back to him, sliding past and slicing across the back of his knee. He let out a loud, pained growl and turned to swing his sword wide as he fell. She jumped back, having to cartwheel to keep her balance, and landed on both feet. With Needle behind her back, she waited for the man to try to stand. 

Sandor glared at the younger man, snarling as he swung, hitting him in the arm before pushing him to the ground. He turned back to the older man just as his sword swiped across, slicing deep into his cheek. Sandor stumbled back, blinking at how close he’d just come to getting his head cut off. With a growl, he met the man’s next blow, pushing against it so he could see the man’s eyes as he punched him hard, a spurt of blood erupting from his teeth as he fell to the ground. 

Turning back to the younger man, who was clamoring to his feet, Sandor swung and took his head off with a clean, fast swipe. Blood stained the dusting of snow on the ground.

Arya pulled the dagger from the dead man’s eye socket and held it tight. While she may have been able to put up a good fight with Westerosi warriors, she would never be as strong as they were. Behind the man she glared at now lay Needle, who had been swiped from her grip with a hard blow. She ducked the man’s swing and lunged for his leg, burying the dagger into his inner thigh before pulling it out and rolling away. 

The man fell to the ground with a yell, clutching at his blood soaked thigh as he bled out. 

Sandor turned around and saw the man he’d punched trying to stand. With an angry growl, he stomped over to the man and as he held the man’s collar, buried his sword down into his chest cavity by way of his neck. Pushing the man off his sword, he turned to survey the damage. 

Across the carnage, Arya was wiping her dagger off and sheathing it. She looked up at him, her face and clothes bloodied and dirty, but her eyes electric from the thrill of the fight. It really was intoxicating, he found himself thinking. Sandor winced as the pain of his cheek hit him as the adrenaline subsided. Wiping and sheathing his sword, he pulled off a glove and fingered the deep cut. 

“That looks bad,” Arya noticed, walking towards him. 

“You hurt, girl?” he looked her over, ignoring his own pain for a moment. 

“Not that I can tell,” she said, leaning forward on her toes to inspect his own wound. “Help me get rid of these bodies, then I’ll help you with that.” 

With the bodies pulled into the woods, they settled back in the bracken. Sandor sat on a stump, his eyes downcast, wincing as Arya wiped the wound as gently as she could. She was inches from his face, one hand holding his jaw on the burnt side to steady herself as she worked her way over the wound on the opposite side. He found himself watching her lips as she chewed on the bottom one in concentration. It was a habit she’d always had, but there was something enticing about it that once was just the nervous tic of a child. 

“A little warning next time,” Sandor hissed as the needle found its way through his skin as she began stitching him up. 

Arya stopped and met his glance, her typically cold, hard eyes, soft and warm. “Sorry,” she offered apologetically.

She stitched him up slowly, watching the needle go in and out of his flesh over and over. It took all she had to focus on the task and not catch his glance again. She could smell the mint leaves he had chewed on earlier in the day on his breath. His beard was thick and comforting under her fingers.

“Let me put a bit of salve on it, then it should be good,” Arya reached into her pack to retrieve a small jar, trying to keep her mind on the task at hand. 

Gently she ran the ointment along the wound. Her fingers felt nice along his skin, he noted. And she was still chewing on her damned lip. Sandor clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to control himself. The adrenaline of the fight, the intoxication of such a capable fighter after a fresh kill and those damned lips were getting the best of him. 

Arya grabbed his face gently on both sides, looking at her handiwork. She moved closer, peering at the stitches. 

“It should heal just fi—” Arya’s eyes went wide.

Unable to control himself any longer, Sandor had leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers at last.


	11. inside the walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sandor contemplate the previous day as they prepare to enter King's Landing. The threat in the North plays mind games.

 

**11\. inside the walls.**

_I'm scared to get close and I hate being alone_  
_I long for that feeling to not feel at all_  
_The higher I get, the lower I'll sink  
_ _I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim_

[\- Can You Feel My Heart, Bring Me The Horizon](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

Podrick’s eyes felt heavy in their sockets, as though they would fall out of his skull at any moment. It had been a week since the first wight attack and they hadn’t been left alone since. Three times now a small army of wights had attacked at random times, sometimes with the dragon and sometimes without.

So he stood there, in the middle of the night, staring into the black nothingness that was the fields north of Winterfell. He stood in front of a brazier, his gloved hands held out over it to keep them warm in the cold winter air. It was his second hour of patrol, with two more left. 

“That magic cock of yours hasn’t fallin’ off in the cold, has it?” he heard from further down the battlements. 

Turning around, he watched as the sell-sword-turned-knight sauntered towards him with as much hubris as one could manage buried under a pile of furs. Since Bronn had arrived a few days prior, he had stayed within the walls of Winterfell as much as he could, to the annoyance of Lady Stark whom he bothered the most. 

Podrick figured he was still after his castle and his lady, which he made a point to mention anytime Ser Jaime seemed to stray too far into a conversation that didn’t involve the debt the one-handed knight owed him. 

“Ser Bronn,” Podrick greeted, moving to make room in front of the brazier. “Surprised to see you out here at this hour.”

“Aye, it’s as cold as a hag’s teat out here,” Bronn huddled close to the fire, rubbing his hands together over it. “Couldn’t sleep. Usually I bother Tyrion since he stays up reading so late, but even he was sleeping. Or at least he ignored my knocks.” The sell sword chuckled to himself. 

“Lord Tyrion does like his books. I think he’s been helping Sam with research,” Pod looked out into the blue darkness that expanded endlessly in front of him. An unwelcome shiver ran down his spine.

“Dull reading, that,” Bronn suggested. 

Podrick hummed in agreement. He wondered what their chances of actually defeating the Night King were. “Do you think we can win?”

Bronn raised a brow in his direction. “That I don’t know. Those last two fights seemed a bit too easy, I can’t get a sense of the frozen bastard’s plans.”

“Aye, the last two were much smaller than the first one. Part of me thinks he’s just trying to wear us down. From what Lord Snow says, he likes to play mind games,” the squire frowned, rubbing his hands fiercely over the flames. 

“Sounds like a bloody cunt, this Night King,” Bronn huffed, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. 

They huddled close to the brazier, staring silently into the flames as they each contemplated the coming war. A light snow began falling, the hiss of it hitting the hot metal the only sound in the night. Podrick shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, inching closer to the fire. Flakes of snow started falling quicker, beginning to leave a dusting on his shoulders. He squinted out into the darkness. 

“It just me, or did it get a lot colder?” Bronn complained, rubbing his arms roughly. 

Podrick didn’t answer, he just stared out into the blackness of the night in front of him. In the faint moonlight he could see the clouds of the snow storm forming high in the sky along the hills in the distance. Bronn followed his eye line and watched the storm move closer. 

His throat was suddenly very dry, Podrick noticed, as he tried to speak up. “S-sound the horn,” he rasped as he watched the faint blue dots begin to appear in the distance. “Hurry!”

Bronn grabbed the horn from next to him and let out a bellowing, hollow sound that echoed along the cold stone walls of Winterfell. The dogs began howling and barking, and men began rising, yelling to each other. 

A line of blue eyes dotted the horizon, growing thicker and closer as the storm surged forward. The snow fell heavy and fast now, large flakes covering Podrick’s hair in a white, fluffy layer as he leaned over the ramparts, squinting to get a better look. The line of wights moved closer and closer still, until they stopped about a mile from the castle walls. Through the mass of blue eyes, a White Walker and his undead steed parted the horde and came to stand at the front of the line. But that’s all they did, was stand there.

“Seven hells, it fucking with us?” Bronn cursed as he watched with Podrick. Behind him he could hear the commotion of the yard as men came to arms and readied themselves at the north gate. 

With a gust of wind the snow fall stopped, but the temperature did not rise. Podrick could now clearly see the swarm of dead men, their blue eyes glowing ominously in the blackness of the night. 

That’s when he heard the spine-shivering screech of the dead dragon. 

 

* * *

Arya was crouched in the bushes close by the river, watching the ships and dinghies float across the water to their destinations. It was early morning, the sun barely above the water as she hid there, intent on getting them inside the walls of King’s Landing today. 

Sandor was still back at the small camp they’d made near the water. They’d slept at a purposeful distance from each other that night, with no fire between them. Fire would draw attention, and they didn’t need anymore attention with five gold cloaks missing. Arya hoped it would be assumed the men had a little too much fun at the tavern the night before; at least until the two of them could safely get inside the walls of the capital. Last thing they needed was a mob of gold cloaks swarming the area. 

As she watched the vessels come in and out of the harbor, she found herself thinking back to the previous day. When he’d kissed her she hadn’t expected it and that was perhaps the thing that disconcerted her the most. She prided herself on her ability to read people and situations and know what would come next. But with him, that all seemed to go to shit. 

Kissing him had put a solidity to the ambivalent, mixed up emotions she’d been tossing around for the last month that she wasn’t prepared for. It felt like she now had to sort them out and assign value and meaning to them instead of just shoving them further down below the layers of vengeance and bloodlust that tended to rule her actions. 

Over the last month of their journey, she’d realized just how much he’d changed. Where once was a man who annoyed and angered her the majority of the time, now was someone who was more careful and calculated, who checked all her worst impulses. But that didn’t mean she wanted him, she thought adamantly to herself.

She recalled how her body had betrayed her as it lingered for a moment in the kiss. Despite the screams from inside to pull away because it would just make things more complicated, she found herself wanting to hold onto for a little while longer. When her senses came back to her, she had pushed away and stared at him, the look on his face mirroring her own. 

It had felt like an eternity that they stared at each other, him still seated on the stump where she had stitched him up, and her just a few feet in front of him. She hadn’t been able to hear anything over the pounding blood in her ears, feeling the tingling sensation in her fingertips, the taste of mint on her lips, and a distant light-headedness that threatened to make itself more present. At that, she had mumbled something about finding a place to make camp and had walked off, perhaps a bit too quickly, into the woods. 

Her ear twitched as she heard him approaching from behind and she felt a flush of warmth down her whole body.

“Wolf-girl,” he greeted gruffly, cautiously crouching beside her. “Up early, as usual.” 

“Best time to think,” she said absently as she watched a man pull to the rocky shore not far from them. 

Sandor hummed in agreement, watching her for a moment before following her eyes to the man on the shore. They sat in silence watching as the man staked his boat in the stony beach. 

Arya did her best to focus on the task ahead, ignoring the twisted, burning sensation in her stomach and the brown eyes she knew kept looking over at her. Perhaps if she just ignored what had happened it would disappear, at least until this business with Cersei was done.

She stood suddenly, drawing a knife from her bootleg and crept through the tree line towards the old man who was digging around in the anchored boat. Sandor frowned, scrambling to his feet to follow her. Arya prowled across the rocky beach, somehow nearly silent on the pebbles. Unfortunately, Sandor was not so lithe in his movements and the loud crunching of his boots alerted the man to the presence of another. 

Arya cursed under her breath, shooting a quick angry glance back at the scarred man before grabbing the older man by the collar of his tunic and bringing the knife to his neck.

“Wolf-girl, no!” Sandor barked, grabbing her shoulder. “Don’t kill him.”

She gritted her teeth together, seething as she looked up at him with wild eyes. “Why shouldn’t I? ‘Dead rats don’t squeak’, didn’t you once say?”

Sandor’s nostrils flared as he remembered the man with the pig cart. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He was beginning to regret all the lessons he’d taught her.

“And dead bodies draw attention,” he cautioned, looking at the old man who was staring at them wide eyed as he awaited his fate. 

Arya turned back to the old man, calculating her next move. She lowered the knife with an annoyed grunt and the old man breathed a sigh of relief. Then she knocked him in the temple with the pummel of the blade. He fell to the ground with a thud as Arya put the knife back in her boot. Digging in her pocket, she found a silver coin and put it in his hand before standing and turning back to her companion. 

“I’ll grab our things,” her mouth twisted in derision as she stomped back to their campsite to retrieve their packs. 

Sandor followed her with his eyes as she disappeared into the trees before turning to regard the man lying unconscious at his feet. With an impressed huff, he went to ready the boat.

 

* * *

“Your grace, a word?” Qyburn ducked his head into her chambers. 

The chambers were dark despite it being late morning. Shadows crept towards the stone columns and shrouded the iron lions who stared down on them ominously. Cersei was standing next to the window, a hand on her growing belly as she looked out over the Blackwater Bay. She turned to her Hand, a deep frown on her face. 

“My little birds have word from Euron Greyjoy, your grace,” Qyburn continued, coming to stand in the middle of the dim room. 

“Has _he_ turned his back on me as well?” she asked bitterly. 

“Not as far as I’m aware.” Qyburn smiled a weak smile. “Word is he is on his way back with the Golden Company, as planned. Some ten thousand men and horses, as well as a few dozen war elephants.”

Cersei smiled grimly to herself. “When are they due?”

“Within a fortnight, your grace.” 

She turned back to the window, looking out at the Blackwater again. The trees along the coast were dusted in snow now and a ghastly blue haze seemed to lay over the water, threatening to devour the ships and small boats.

“Good.”

 

* * *

_Creak. Splash. Creak. Splash._

Sandor pushed hard on the oars in the water, propelling the small boat forward with ease. His hood was pulled down low on his head in the morning sun, both to shield his eyes and hide his face. Arya sat across from him, her own hood pulled low as she watched the shore line. 

“Wolf-girl,” he started as he continued to row. 

Arya looked up at him, her steel grey eyes burning through him. It had been a stupid thing to kiss her, knowing he couldn’t deal with the aftermath of it until this business with Cersei was done, but he’d felt the irrational need to show her he cared, even if he couldn’t put it into words. She raised a thick brow in anticipation. He didn’t know exactly what he was trying to say to her when he spoke up. 

“Yesterday…” The words stuck in his throat, betraying him. On one hand he wanted to apologize and say it was nothing, but in a world where the next day wasn’t certain anymore he felt a deep ache to tell her the truth. 

“The bodies are hidden, no one’s going to find them,” she said, turning away from him slightly to look out at the ships in the bay. 

Sandor glared at her as he stopped rowing, his gloved fingers digging into the wood of the oars in exasperation. The boat bobbed in the gentle wake of the ships in the distance. “You know bloody well that’s not what I’m talking about.” 

Arya frowned as she turned to look up at the ramparts of King’s Landing, desperate to not meet his gaze. There were so many more important things to deal with right now. Confusing emotions and girlish notions were not amongst them. But sadly, she was stuck here on a boat with the man that had protected her, cared for her, abandoned her, died for her, and came back into her life to turn her world upside down. Her dark brows furrowed in consternation as she turned to look at the scarred man who had kissed her the day before. 

“We need to focus on Cersei. And your brother,” she sighed, digging a knife into the side of the boat, picturing the woman’s face. “That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

_It’s not,_ he wanted to shout. But she was as stubborn as the day he’d met her, he had learned long ago to choose his battles wisely. There would, _hopefully_ , be a time and a place.

Sandor began rowing again with a displeased grunt, pushing the oars too hard and splashing water into the boat. Arya frowned as the water hit her legs, but kept quiet, carving lines into the wood as though it was the only thing in the world left to focus on. 

They continued in the boat for some time, rounding Aegon’s high hill where the Red Keep towered, seemingly into the clouds, and past the abandoned watch towers into the Blackwater Rush. With the current against them, the sun nearly above them before Arya pointed to an outcropping of rocks just before the docks. 

“There.”

They left the boat to float away, having no need for it anymore. The rocks were large and slick with snow, but still stained a deep brown from the sewers up on the hill. Arya turned to Sandor as she climbed the rocks, her pack hiked high on her shoulder.

“This won’t be pleasant,” she warned, scrunching her nose.

“Where are we going?” Sandor looked around at the rocky shore, then up at the tall walls of King’s Landing where he could barely see the Red Keep. 

“Through the sewers and into the catacombs,” she called back as she kept climbing towards the entrance. 

“And how would you know this route?”

“I used to chase cats before…” Arya quieted, standing at the entrance and looking into the blackness of the tunnel. “Before my father was executed.”

Sandor frowned, remembering that day very clearly. If he closed his eyes, he could hear Sansa’s blood-curdling screams, the ring of the steel as Ilyn Payne removed Ice from its sheath, the thud as the man’s head hit the stone, the cheers from the crowd. His stomach turned at the thought.

“Why were you chasing cats?” Sandor asked, trying to move the conversation away from that horrible day. 

“Syrio said it would help with agility,” she said wistfully, tears beginning to well up. She hadn’t realized just how many bad memories would come flooding back as she crossed the threshold to King’s Landing. Arya squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Sandor remembered her talking about Syrio, her dancing master. If he recalled correctly, it had been Meryn Trant who’d killed him. The greatest swordsman who had ever lived had been caught without a sword. He made a face as he watched her try to regain her composure.

“I chased a cat down into the catacombs and had to come out this way to get back into King’s Landing. We should be able to follow the route back up the way I had come and pick the locks,” she said as she pulled a makeshift torch from her pack and lit it. 

The flames blossomed to life in front of Sandor and he flinched, stepping back. Even after the visions and the dragons, he’d never get past his fear of fire. Maybe once his brother was dead, he thought as he furrowed his brow and followed her into the pungent tunnel.

 

* * *

“We need to make a move.”

The ridge in Jaime’s brow couldn’t get deeper, Brienne thought as she watched him from the other side of the room. Since his arrival, the knight had taken over as commander for the upcoming battle, which was not looking good given their low numbers. Everyone had deep, dark circles under their eyes. They had been attacked seven times over the course of the last two weeks and the whole castle was on edge as whispers of abandonment started echoing in the halls. 

“And send everyone to their inevitable death?” He glared at Daenerys from his spot at the head of the table as he looked down over the map. 

“It’s either that or what army we do have will be exhausted when the real fight begins. These sneak attacks are slowly killing us,” the dragon queen spat back from the other end of the table. 

Jon sighed, rubbing his eyes, clearly over the constant bickering in strategy between the two of them. Every day there was some version of this argument and Brienne worried how long it would take for everyone to snap. The cracks were already apparent. 

“We should at least wait, if we can, until the scorpions are done. With Bronn’s help, we’re nearly finished, another few days,” Tyrion offered as an intermediary, noting Jon’s frustration. 

Jaime nodded in agreement a bit too smugly, Brienne noted. No matter what happened to him, he’d always have that Lannister pride to him.

“Thanks to Sam, we now have ten Valyrian daggers,” Sansa offered, trying to brighten their spirits even just a little. 

“And how goes the rest of the weapons building?” Jon looked over at Davos, who had the most daily contact with Gendry and the rest of the forge. 

“Good, m’lord. All Dothraki arakhs are tipped with dragon glass, as well as all Unsullied spears. We have about ten thousand daggers made,” Davos explained, frowning. “Though I’m afraid we’re almost out of dragon glass.”

“Make as much as you can,” Jon said, standing and looking over the map. “It’s all we can do.”

With a solemness that had become common place within the walls of Winterfell, the room emptied. Brienne watched Jaime in doleful fascination as she walked behind Sansa towards the door. He was still standing at the head of the table and just as she was about to leave the room, he looked up with twinkling green eyes, giving her one of his signature, albeit tired, smiles. She averted her eyes with the faintest blush and turned back to what Sansa was saying to her as they exited the room.


	12. two names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya attempts to cross two names off her list with Sandor's help.

 

**12\. two names.**

 

You’ll never know what hit you  
Won’t see me closing in  
I’m gonna make you suffer  
This hell you put me in  
I’m underneath your skin  
The devil within

[— The Devil Within, Digital Daggers](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

“I’m _not_ using poison,” Sandor glared at her as they huddled in the damp, cold cellar. “It’s a—”

“Woman’s weapon, I know,” Arya rolled her eyes. He smirked at her fondly. “As long as Cersei and your brother are dead, why does it matter what method is used?”

Sandor watched as her slender fingers picked through the bag to retrieve a small vial. She held it up in the dim light of the lone torch they kept lit, the blaze glowing through the amber glass of the tiny container. 

“Just a swipe of it along any blades you have,” she instructed as she tossed the glass vessel his direction. “Apply it with this, don’t let it get on you.”

Arya picked up the corner of her cloak and ripped a small section off, leaning forward on her hands and knees to hand it to him across the damp floor. His fingers grazed her’s as he grabbed the piece of fabric, her stormy grey eyes guardedly meeting his gaze for just a moment before she sat back and busied herself in her pack.

Sandor ran the soft, grey wool from the Winterfell-made cloak between his calloused fingers with a fondness that made him frown. They were walking into their graves. He pocketed the swatch and vial with a resigned sigh. At least they’d die together. He was beginning to think living in this world was pointless without her. He shook the notion from his head.

He took a bite of the meat pie Arya had stolen from the Keep’s kitchens and settled in for their final evening in the catacombs.

For a week they had hid in the cellars under the Red Keep as Arya moved about the castle, learning its weak points as well as the people who could get closest to the Queen. She even managed to get into the Queen’s private quarters to empty her chamberpot every day, reporting back that the Mountain always stood inside by the door unless his muscle was needed elsewhere. 

She had also learned that Cersei was pregnant. But the world didn’t need another Lannister.

Earlier that day, she had lured Bernadette, Cersei’s most trusted handmaiden, down to the kitchens and slit her throat quietly before taking her face. In the morning, she would disguise herself as the woman and innocently inform one of the men of the Queensguard that there was suspicious activity in the gardens, where Sandor hid. While Arya set the Godswood on fire, Sandor would kill the man and take his armor.

Knowing the next day would be a long one, they settled down early. It took everything in him to not lie next to her, to feel her warmth, her life, against him one more time before the unknown unfolded.

 

* * *

Chaos had erupted within the walls of the Red Keep. The godswood, just below the Keep’s eastern walls, was on fire, blazing hot and high. Bells rang out. Dogs barked. Men ran towards the flames.

They were hidden in a room just down the hall from Cersei’s chambers. Arya was about to put on the handmaiden’s face and run off down the corridor when Sandor grabbed her sleeve, pulling her back to their hiding place. She shot him a wide eyed, impatient look, her eyes darting from the hall to him.

“Where are you going, girl?” he growled as he worked to buckle the chest plate of the Queensguard armor.

“Now’s my chance,” she whispered fiercely.

“You’re not running in there alone,” Sandor said as he finished the buckle with a curse. 

“I don’t need your help—”

Sandor grabbed her shoulders roughly, pulling her face close to his. 

“Listen, girl. You may be fine just throwing your life away to kill the cunt, but I’m not,” he hissed. 

Arya glared at him, trying to remove herself from his grasp. He squeezed her arms tighter, surely bruising her. He didn’t care. 

“Whether you want to believe it or not, there are people that care about your safety,” he said, only slightly less angry, his grip loosening only just. 

“Sansa, Bran and Jon will understand,” Arya grumbled, looking away from his intense stare. 

“I’m not talking about them, wolf-girl,” Sandor rasped as he gently grabbed her chin.

She looked up at him, her intense grey eyes clouded with ire and contrition. “I have to go.” 

Sandor sighed, unable to take it anymore. That gnawing pain in his gut threatened to return, the fear of her imminent death heavy in his heart. He should have stopped her from ever leaving Winterfell—told Sansa or Jon and let them lock her up for her own safety. Guarded the door like the dog he was. But he knew there was no point; Arya was ruthless, determined and more clever than anyone he’d met. The only thing he could do was protect her from herself. 

Just as she was about to turn to go, he roughly pulled her close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Arya resisted for a moment, pushing against the cold, black metal of the Queensguard armor he wore. When he didn’t give up, she softened into the embrace as her arms snaked around him timidly. She could still smell him through the armor, a comforting smell as her heart thumped in her chest.

“We go together or not at all,” he said quietly against the top of her head, one of his hands coming to the nape of her neck. 

Sandor held her for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her hair as his cool fingers tangled in it. With a sigh, he leaned down to press his lips to her forehead before letting her go.

Arya didn’t have a chance to consider the roiling emotions in her stomach as the commotion out in the hall drew her attention back to the task at hand. She looked up at Sandor briefly, meeting his sad but sincere gaze with uncertainty in her stormy grey eyes. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned away to put on the face of the handmaiden and stepped out into the hall. Sandor pulled the black fabric over his mouth and nose before bringing the helm of the Queensguard down over his head with a reluctant sigh. 

They rushed down the hallway towards Cersei’s chambers. Sandor watched the woman in front of him—he knew it was Arya, but with the short crop of dark hair and the black silk dress, she was unrecognizable from behind.

He could feel the blood pulsing in his ears as they reached Cersei’s door. With a rap of her knuckles, Arya pushed the heavy wood door open with purpose. It was dark inside the chamber, but Sandor noticed his brother standing not ten feet from him before his gaze went any further. He took a deep breath, trying to listen over the pounding in his ears as he stood by the door. 

“Your grace,” Bernadette called. “I’ve been sent to take you to another part of the castle, further from the danger of the fire.” She walked towards Cersei, who was at the window watching the trees and shrubbery dance with flames. 

Cersei turned to look at her and Sandor was sure she’d know it wasn’t her trusted servant. But Cersei nodded and moved to her desk.

“I need to get a few things,” she said as she moved about the table. 

Sandor closed the door and bolted it, meeting his brother’s gaze as the metal scraped into its place. The right side of his face felt hot—it throbbed—as he fingered the pummel of his sword. Arya watched him out of the corner of her eye as Cersei went through things on her desk. 

It was an odd feeling, knowing he wanted to both be here to finally put an end to the man who’d ruined his life, but also wanting nothing more than to be as far as possible from here, keeping her safe. He managed to tear his gaze from hers and turn back to his brother, who also had his hand on his sword. 

With a deep breath, he drew the sword from its sheath with a chilling ring of steel. 

“This ends now, brother,” he muttered as he stalked towards him, watching as the beast drew his blade. 

Sandor roared, meeting his brother’s sword with the hatred he’d had bottled up his whole life. Everything else went dark. The soulless red eyes in front of him were the only thing he saw as he pushed hard against his brother’s blade. His brother was somehow stronger than he remembered. 

A candelabra clattered to the ground, its candles shattering on impact. Cersei stared wide eyed at the brawl that had broken out in front of her.

“Your grace, this way,” Bernadette urged, pulling her towards the bed chambers and away from the fight that had broken out. 

Cersei followed her handmaiden into the next room, where Bernadette closed the door hurriedly. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Cersei demanded through clenched teeth, her hand over her stomach. 

Bernadette peered through a crack in the door. “I don’t know your grace, your men seem to be fighting,” she stated the obvious. Arya lingered on the sight, not wanting to let Sandor disappear. Reluctantly she turned back to her task. 

Cersei was pacing the floor as she listened to the sounds in the other room. 

_The poison_ , he thought as he blocked another swing. He needed to make contact with his brother’s skin, somehow. The beast moved towards him again, swinging wide. Sandor stumbled backwards, cursing as he knocked into a table. 

Gregor came at him, eerily silent. This thing wasn’t his brother, but he’d kill it all the same. His face felt like it was on fire as he slashed angrily at his brother. 

_You bastard, you miserable fuck, you’re gonna die._

Arya pushed the bolt up the door and turned to Cersei. This was it. Kneeling down, she pulled up the skirts of her dress and removed a knife from her boot. The Lannister woman was watching her, a deep furrow in her brow. Arya’s hand went up to Bernadette’s face and pulled.

“What are you…” Cersei trailed off as Arya tossed the face to the floor, reveling her true face as her hair fell to her shoulders. 

From the look on her face, it was clear Cersei didn’t know who she was. How could she? It had been so many years; she had been but a child when she’d fled the capital after her father’s execution. 

“You know… Your son was always at the top of my list,” she started as she came to stand. Slowly Arya moved towards the confused woman.

“And when I found out he had died, I was angry. Who dared to take him from me? The boy who killed my father,” she spun the knife around absently in her gloved hand. “I was bitter about it for a long time.”

Cersei had backed herself against the bed, with no where else to go. “Who are you?” she demanded, the slightest hint of fear in her voice. 

Arya ignored her. “But you were always second on my list. Because you orchestrated the whole damned thing,” she spat, venom in her grey eyes. 

Cersei’s hand reached towards the side table with purpose. Grasping a metal vase, she threw it at the young woman who was just feet in front of her. Arya slid her body to the side with precision, her eyes never leaving the lioness. 

“Winter is here,” she said with deadly grace. “And wolves are made for the cold. What does a lion do when the snows fall?” 

Cersei’s green eyes widened as she realized who the girl in front of her was. She climbed backwards on the bed, but before she could turn to clamor over the other side, Arya had lunged at her. The wolf straddled the lion, dropping her knife to the bed and grabbing both of Cersei’s arms. 

“You should have cut all of our heads off when you had the chance,” she whispered, staring with deadly intent into the frantic green eyes below her. 

“You really are a little animal,” Cersei hissed as she struggled against the girl’s hold. “I’m pregnant.” 

Arya chuckled darkly. “Do you think I care? Do you think I want to see another fucking Lannister come into this world?”

She got down into the woman’s pale face, inches from her. The smell of her perfume filled her nostrils. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be what I am today.”

With deadly speed, she grabbed the knife that was lying on the bed next to her and sliced the Lannister woman’s neck with calculated grace. Sitting back, she watched intently as Cersei grabbed for her bloody throat with jeweled fingers, her emerald green eyes wide in shock and pain. 

“So really, you signed away your own life,” Arya surmised, her voice distant, her face slack of emotion, her eyes dull. 

With a final, bloody gasp, Cersei Lannister took her last breath.

Arya frowned down at the woman who had haunted her and her family for so long. She had expected to feel a sense of peace but she felt nothing. It wasn’t like killing her would bring her father back, she knew that. But now that it was done, Arya realized she still felt just as hollow inside as before. 

A clatter from the other room pulled her from her dark thoughts. Scrambling to her feet, Arya ran to the door and unbolted it. The Mountain’s wide, large back was to her, and behind him she could see Sandor, bloody and panting, but still standing. She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. 

She watched silently for a moment as the brothers tussled, steel ringing in the dim chamber. Books and statues were strewn across the floor as they moved about the room, lunging and slashing at each other. Sandor was breathing heavily and blood soaked through the fabric of his black pants. The distant sounds of shouting could be heard outside as the fire was still being put out. 

Arya instinctively reached for Needle, cursing when her hand grabbed air. All she had was the poisoned knife in her hand. 

Gregor was charging his brother, his sword slicing through a table as Sandor ducked out of the way. The wood splintered from the blow, exploding into the air as the table was cut in half. Arya was quietly inching closer to the men. _Just have to wait for the right moment…_

Sandor thought he would have worn his brother down by now. His left leg throbbed where he’d been hit, but he’d yet to cut Gregor with the poison tipped blade. Briefly his thoughts drifted to the wolf and the lion and he wondered what was happening in the other room. He parried Gregor’s swing with a growl. As his brother moved, he saw Arya standing ten feet behind him, her eyes searching for the best next move. Gregor was about to turn around. With renewed spirits, knowing she was still safe, he sliced rapidly but Gregor met every one of his blows with equal vigor. _What the hell did they do to you, brother?_

He watched as Arya crouched, her knife grasped tightly in her small, bloody hand. Determined grey eyes filled with bloodlust looked at him, briefly looked up at Gregor’s shoulders, then back to him again. The memory of her killing her first man, the Frey soldier who wouldn’t shut up about sewing her brother’s wolf’s head on his body, came to mind. _Thanks for letting me know this time, little wolf._

Sandor watched as Arya sprung up onto the large man’s shoulders, unsure how she was even able to jump that high. Her face was wild, teeth bared, eyes wide, as she stabbed him in the neck repeatedly. The first sound he heard Gregor make the entire time was the roar that came from his bloated throat as he grabbed Arya with his free hand and threw her across the room.

“No!” he yelled as she bounced into a column like a rag doll and fell to the floor. She whimpered, but did not get up. 

Then Gregor fell to the floor with a loud crash. _That poison works fucking quick._

Sandor stood over his brother, looking down with a strange sense of pity. He reached down and pulled the helm off and gasped as he saw his brother’s bloated, purple face for the first time. Black blood was oozing from the wounds on his neck. 

“What did they do to you?” he asked again, quietly. 

Gregor was paralyzed by whatever poison Arya had laced her knife with. His eyes were angry red orbs that threatened to burst any moment. Sandor shuddered as he grabbed a nearby wall torch. Crouching next to his brother’s head, he held the flame close, looking him over. 

He wanted to press the flames to his brother’s face. He wanted him to feel the angry, boiling flesh as it melted off. He wanted Gregor’s nostrils to fill with the acrid smell of his own skin burning. 

But this wasn’t Gregor. Gregor had died a long time ago. This monster did not recognize him. 

Sandor set the torch down on the floor and came to his feet. The scars on his face no longer throbbed. With a swift motion, he brought his sword down along Gregor’s neck and sliced through with surprising ease, severing the head completely from its shoulders. Thick, black blood gurgled out of the swollen neck as he died. For real this time. 

_Bye, brother. See you in hell._

Arya groaned as she sat up, her cheek blossoming in black and blue where it hit the floor. Blood decorated her face and hands and the bottom of the handmaiden’s dress she wore was soaked through.

“Wolf-girl,” Sandor whispered as he crouched in front of her, grasping the back of her head gently. “Are you hurt?”

“Are you?” Arya nodded towards his bloody leg. 

“Just a scratch,” he dismissed. 

Arya looked over at the Mountain who lay in a black, glistening pool of his own blood. She looked down at the queen’s blood on her hands. It was over. Gregor was dead. Cersei was dead. And they were alive. In hindsight, it would have been difficult to do this without him. But even now, she wouldn’t admit that to him.

“Your brother is off your list,” she said quietly, looking up at him with tired grey eyes. 

Sandor’s hand moved from the back of her head to her unbruised cheek, cupping it gently as he looked her over, his thumb lightly brushing her bottom lip. She looked up at him as she clasped his hand, her grey eyes softening. 

“He’s off _your_ list. That’s why we’re here,” Sandor admitted as he searched her face. A part of him knew that his brother had been dead long before they got here. But he also knew she wouldn’t be able to rid herself of the demons in her mind until he was truly gone.

Arya offered a weak smile, wincing as her head throbbed. With what energy she had left, she moved closer to lay against his chest. He gathered her in his large, strong arms and she truly felt safe. 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she croaked, her voice betraying her. Her arms snaked around him and she pressed her cheek to the cool, bloody metal of his armor. 

Sandor pressed his lips to her forehead and squeezed her tight as his hand tangled in her hair. 

“Always, little wolf. Always.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by kelsie_jones' artwork on her fic (check it out!) so I pulled out my tablet for that final scene. It's convenient when Sandor's burns are hidden. XD


	13. queen for a day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya takes advantage of Cersei's face. Winterfell receives a raven. Euron is impatient. [Story title change.]

 

**13\. queen for a day.**

 

 _What doesn't kill you makes you wish you were dead.  
_ _Got a hole in my soul, growing deeper and deeper.  
_ _And I can't take one more moment of this silence.  
_ _The loneliness is haunting me.  
_ _And the weight of the world's getting harder to hold up._

**[— Drown, Bring Me The Horizon](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il) **

 

_—_

Horns sounded across the Red Keep. It had been two days since the fire and Qyburn hadn’t seen the Mountain since. Cersei informed him she’d sent him on a special mission, but he’d noticed something off about her. Perhaps she was no longer with child, he wondered. 

He shuffled towards her chambers quickly. She’d stationed another member of the Queensguard to look over her chambers, and he was greeted gruffly by him as he knocked on the door. Similar to Ser Gregor, this one did not talk. 

“Your Grace,” Qyburn announced. 

Cersei was sitting at her desk, penning a note. She looked up, sternly meeting his gaze. 

“Euron Greyjoy is requesting your presence in the throne room, your Grace,” Qyburn clasped his hands in front of him, peering over at the guard by the door. 

“He’s requesting _my_ presence?” Cersei scoffed. “I’ll see him when I’m ready.”

She sneered as she rolled the parchment up and poured a small amount of red wax on it, pressing the Lannister seal to it. She stood and rounded the desk, holding out the parchment. 

“See that this gets to Winterfell. My brother should have arrived there by now.”

Qyburn nodded. “Of course, your Grace.” He bowed and exited the room, but not before eyeing up the guard at the door. 

The door closed with a dull thud, and Sandor turned to bolt it. 

“Don’t think we can keep this up much longer,” he warned as he walked towards her, taking off the helm and pulling the fabric from his face. 

Arya pulled Cersei’s face from hers and sat it on the desk. It gave him chills. He wasn’t sure he would get used to watching her do that. 

“We’ll be out of here in a few days. As long as we can keep them off the scent until then,” Arya said, huffing as she picked at the black silk dress. 

“Hadn’t seen you in a dress before,” he noted at last, nodding towards the form fitting number she’d pulled from Cersei’s wardrobe. 

The black fabric clung to her frame, accentuating the subtle but feminine curves of her hips and chest. He’d had to force himself on multiple occasions over the last couple of days to look away. But she’d caught him staring anyway. 

“They’re miserable,” she glared down at the pile of fabric around her legs. “How am I supposed to fight in this?” She kicked her leg out, puffing the fabric with a grunt.

Sandor came closer, his teeth running along his lower lip, hunger in his eyes. Once the bloodied sheets had been discreetly replaced, they’d slept in the queen’s bed together for the last two nights. Despite its large size and her making a point of going to sleep with her back to him, he always awoke with her against his chest, his arm protectively around her. He recalled that morning, when she’d tenderly and timidly pressed a kiss to his lips while he held her in the warmth of the plush bed. He’d never seen the look in her eyes that she’d had then, one of trust, longing, warmth. With her list practically done, he wondered what was in store for the Stark assassin now. A shiver ran through him as he approached her at the desk. He counted himself lucky to see this side of her.

“Aye, how _are_ you supposed to fight, wolf girl?” he said, almost possessively as one of his hands ran along the black fabric on her hip as he appraised her. Give him an inch, he’d take a mile.

Arya placed a hand on his chest, while the other steadied against the desk. The cold black metal of the armor was not as welcoming as the warm, strong muscled chest she knew was beneath it. She flushed as she looked up at him, her grey eyes still uncertain about what was happening between them.

Sandor tipped her chin up and leaned down to press a rough kiss to her lips. A small sigh came from her mouth as she returned it. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip and the hand on her waist tightened, pulling her closer against him. Then she bit down. 

“Nasty bitch,” he growled as he pulled away, running his tongue over the bead of blood that had formed. Some things never change.

With a smirk and a renewed glint in her eyes, she pushed him away. “We’ve got visitors to tend to,” she reminded as she reached for the face sitting on the desk behind her. 

“Aye,” he acquiesced. “Let’s go see what this Greyjoy cunt wants.”

The room echoed with their footsteps as they walked towards the Iron Throne. It was a cavernous, unnecessarily large room, Arya thought to herself as she climbed the stairs to sit on the throne. It was a cold, hard seat she noted as she ran her fingers over the metal swords that formed the arms, worn from many a hand doing the same. 

Sandor stood next to her, much like he’d done for Joffrey many times. He tried to push those memories out of his head as he watched Euron Greyjoy swing the large doors at the other end of the hall open with pompous flair. Sandor rolled his eyes. 

The iron born man swaggered towards his queen with a smirk that Sandor wanted nothing more than to slap off. He stopped short of the stairs and swept into a bow. 

“Your Grace,” he purred. “The Golden Company awaits your orders, and _I_ await your hand.” Euron eyed the Queensguard next to her. 

“Speaking of hands,” he chuckled to himself. “Where is your dear brother?”

Cersei looked down her nose at him, clenching one of the arms of the throne. 

“He left,” she answered. “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve had a change of heart.”

Euron raised a brow suspiciously, awaiting her next words. 

“You’ll ferry the Golden Company north to White Harbor, after all,” she stated coolly. “To fight the army of the dead.”

He scoffed and began climbing the steps towards her. Her guard stepped forward and pulled his sword partway from its scabbard. Euron stopped, raising his hands with a smirk. 

“That wasn’t the deal,” he huffed. 

“Was it _your_ money that paid for them?” She interrupted him, raising a brow as she leaned forward on the throne. 

Euron frowned, the scowl in his brow deepening. “And when do you propose we take care of our personal matters—I want you as my wife, my _queen_.” 

His chin lifted, proud and undeterred. Sandor bit the inside of his cheek at the thought of this slimy sea monster touching Arya.

Cersei regarded him for a moment, her thumb running along the steel of her seat. She looked down at the rings on her fingers. “You’ll have my hand when the army arrives in White Harbor. The Golden Company and the Lannister forces.” 

“We don’t have room for them all,” he scoffed.

“Find room,” she demanded. “I want you to leave in two days time. When you’ve successfully ferried them North, come back to me and we will be married on your arrival.” 

Euron eyed her skeptically, but smiled smugly, nodding. “As you wish, your Grace.” He bowed and turned to leave, his swaggering steps clacking on the stone floor as he left.

Sandor looked over at Arya. She rolled her eyes and stood, pressing the creases out of the silk. 

“Shall we get ready to go home?” Arya asked as the walked together down the stairs. 

_Home,_ he rolled the word around in his head, feeling out it’s fit in his life. He liked it.

“I need to retrieve something, while we’re here,” Sandor admitted as a small, almost sheepish smirk hid under his beard.

Arya followed him through the halls, remembering them vaguely from her time here years ago. These were the royal apartments, where her and Sansa had stayed. They received a few odd looks from servants as they walked, but Arya stood tall, as though she answered to no one, just like the queen. 

Sandor stopped at a door, Sansa’s old room. Arya furrowed her brows, unsure what he needed from there. They entered the chambers and Sandor found it much like it had been when he’d come here after the Battle of the Blackwater. She closed the door and frowned as she bolted it.

“Why are we in Sansa’s old chambers?” she asked as she took the face off, her voice changing from the Lannister woman’s to her own. 

“I told you, I left something here,” he said dismissively as he began pushing the bed to the side. The wood scraped loudly on the stone as he slid it out of the way. 

Sandor lifted the rug that lay there and began knocking on the stones. Arya watched him, slightly perturbed. 

“Why would you leave something in Sansa’s room?” 

He continued rapping on the stones, ignoring her question. The night he had put it here he had been a drunk mess and he really didn’t wish to get into what happened with her. As his knuckles hit the right stone, a hollow note rang out.

“Ah-hah!” he exclaimed as he wedged his finger under it and pried it up. 

Inside was a small opening, and in the small opening was a hefty bag of coins. He grinned like a mad dog. 

“What is that?” she peered over his shoulder.

“Leftovers from the Hand’s tourney,” he spoke gruffly as he set the bag on the bed and placed the stone and rug back where they belonged. “Dog’s gotta bury his bones somewhere safe.”

Arya opened the bag and gasped as she saw hundreds of gold dragons. Wide-eyed, she looked over at the man who had his arms crossed and a proud grin plastered on his scarred face. 

“There are so many coins in here!” she exclaimed, running her fingers over them. Money wasn’t something she bothered herself with, particularly since she had returned to Winterfell, but it was exciting to see so much money in one place. 

“A _lot_ of bones,” he admitted as he pulled the bed back to its place with a grunt. 

“What are you going to do with it all?” 

“Make sure I take a few goods from down south back up North. Don’t think I’ll be down here for a long time,” he said. If the army of the dead didn’t kill him, he had no need to come back south ever again. But that was a conversation for another time. 

“Couple barrels of the finest Dornish reds. Might be some steel that’s better made than what I got. Maybe even get a horse that’s made for a big fucker like me,” he chuckled.

“That’ll be a lot of wine, steel and horses for that much money,” she noted as she put Cersei’s face back on. 

“Gonna need it after all this,” he frowned as he pulled the helm down over his face.

Looking around the room once more, they left Sansa’s old chambers to ready for their journey back North.

 

* * *

Maester Wolkan quietly came into the Great Hall during lunch, clutching a message within the folds of his robe. The low rumble of chatter echoed in the hall, much quieter than it had been a few weeks ago before the first wight attack. He shuffled over to Jon who was sitting with Sansa, Gendry, Tormund, Brienne and Podrick. 

“A raven, my lord,” he handed him the parchment. “From King’s Landing.”

Jon frowned as he took the paper, fingering it in his gloved hand before opening it. Sansa moved closer to him to read over his shoulder, worried about Arya. Gendry perked up to listen, knowing that’s where Arya had gone. Maester Wolkan bowed and saw himself out. Unrolling the parchment Jon’s brows raised in disbelief as he read the words aloud.

 

_ Expect help soon. The North Remembers. —Cersei _

 

Sansa and Jon looked at each other. “Arya?”

“That’s her horrible handwriting,” Sansa simpered. “I can’t believe they did it.” A small smile graced her lips. 

Jon looked around at everyone seated with him. They all looked tired from the past few weeks but had a renewed sense of energy knowing help was on the way. He just hoped his sister would get here before it was too late.

 

* * *

_“In the catacombs,” Bran said. “Under Cobbler’s Square.” A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cool air coming in through the open window._

_Arya made a face. “You sure? How do I get it here?”_

_Bran looked over at her dully, his face an expressionless void. She missed her real brother. “That I cannot help you with. But be careful with it, it’s quite explosive.”_

_She stood and went to close the window before turning back to him, her arms crossed, a deep furrow in her brow. He looked so small and frail in the large bed, hidden beneath a pile of furs._

_“And it_ has _to come here?”_

_Bran turned mechanically towards the fire across the room, his eyes distant. “In my dreams, green flames licked the walls of Winterfell as wolves and dogs bayed. It must come here.”_

_Other than the visions of past and present, he had always been gifted with the ability to sense things in the future through his dreams. They were never explicit but he had learned to find their meaning quickly._

_“We need it to win,” she muttered solemnly as she ran a gloved hand over the hilt of Needle, following his eyes to the flames._

“But your Grace, I’m not sure that is wise,” Qyburn warned, wringing his hands. 

Cersei was sitting at her desk, absently fingering the ornately carved edge with a jeweled finger. The rings were made up of warm gold and sparkling gems, but were heavy and cumbersome and would likely hinder her ability to use the blade hidden in the leather corset she wore. Her sentry was not far off though, and this was but a maester, not someone to truly worry about. 

“The substance is extremely volatile and moving it could cause an explosion and inevitable loss of life,” he continued, just a shadow amongst the other shadows in the dim room. 

“If it’s not moved, we send forty thousand men to a blood bath,” Cersei spoke, looking up at him from the wood of the table. “It’s needed, or else all this,” she waved her hand around the room, “is gone. Can you bring back that many people, Qyburn?” 

Cersei raised a questioning brow towards him as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk. The corset was suffocatingly uncomfortable.

“No, your Grace. Not unless I had quite a bit of time,” Qyburn conceded, the smallest of smirks gracing his crooked mouth.

“Then it goes North on those ships,” she said definitively, effectively ending the discussion. 

“Yes, your Grace. I’ll see to it at once,” Qyburn bowed and saw himself out.

 

* * *

Arya stood on the balcony, looking out over the city and all its twinkling lights. Somewhere out there, Sandor was securing his goods. It had been the first time they’d been apart since they rushed in to kill the queen three days ago and she found herself aching for him to be close by. 

It was an odd thing, what was happening between them, she thought as she picked at the fabric of the night dress she wore. She had never thought of anyone in the way she thought of him now—some combination of emotional and physical desire rolled into a ball of abject need. The idea that of all the people in Westeros she could trust, he was the most likely choice made her shake her head in disbelief. What they were six years ago was not what they were now, in so many ways, both good and bad. 

She was pulled from her thoughts by a knock at the chamber door, which she thought odd considering Sandor had a key to the room. Grabbing Cersei’s face, she went to the door and opened it to see Euron Greyjoy standing there, smug as ever. 

“My queen,” he bowed ever so slightly. “Aren’t you a sight.” His eyes ran over her, and Arya found herself desperate for a bath. 

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I could ask the same of you, answering your own door,” he looked behind her into the room. “Where is your guard?” 

Cersei’s thin brows furrowed. “What do you want?” she asked again.

“Simply to talk. To get to know my future wife a bit better,” he purred. “Might I join you for a glass of wine?” 

She frowned, but let him in, eager to not have the door open any longer than it needed to be. Besides, she could take him if needed, for she had a blade— _shit_. The shift she wore had no place for a blade, she thought to herself as she had already let him in, closing the door with a thud. 

“The piss we have to drink on the Iron Islands is not fit for a queen,” he was saying as he turned to her, two glasses in his hands. He did not know Cersei was pregnant, so it would be easier for Arya to not refuse and cause issue. Euron took a sip as he handed her a glass.

“Mm, but this, this is the good stuff!” he praised, taking another drink. “Drink, my queen! Let us celebrate our last night in King’s Landing as a betrothed pair. I’ll sail hard and fast to get back to you.”

Cersei lifted the drink to her lips and paused. Arya sensed something wrong with the wine. “I think it might be spoiled,” she said as she looked at the glass, but she didn’t know much about wine. 

Euron frowned. “No, my queen, it’s delicious—perhaps just a different blend than you are used to,” he suggested. 

She took a sip of the red liquid, not tasting anything off. Euron smiled, encouraging her to drink more. She did. It was quite good, Arya thought to herself. Much better than the wine they were able to get up North, save for the ice wine, which was very sweet and only brought out for the most special of occasions. 

Euron walked to the middle of the chambers, looking around as he admired the expansiveness of it in the candlelight. He turned back to her, extending a hand in her direction. She approached cautiously. 

“Our wedding night will be one to remember,” he said wistfully as he took the cup from her hand, setting it on the table beside them. “I’m going to fuck you until any thought of your brother is pushed from your head.” 

She made a face at him as he took her by the arms. He felt far away, as though he was all the way on the other side of the room. Her skin felt like liquid where he grabbed her and she found herself blinking rapidly as she tried to maintain her balance. Had she really been that much of a lightweight? 

“Or, perhaps we could get that part over with tonight,” he was saying as he guided her towards the large bed in the next room. 

_Shit. No, no, no. What is happening to me?_

She tried to resist as he pushed her against the bed, but found no strength in her arms. The fall to the feather bed felt like miles as her eyes grew as wide as saucers. He was talking, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everything was a distant blur that she tried to grasp onto but found she had no hands. She had no body. 

Euron was on top of her now, she could feel the weight of his body and barely made out that he still had his clothes on. He kissed her sloppily but she couldn’t move from it. Her body felt like it weighed a ton, pressing further into the bed, into frantic oblivion. 

_Sandor, where are you?_

With all her strength, she tried to focus. She couldn’t move, but she could see him more clearly now. At the House of Black and White, she had learned how to counter symptoms of the poisons they made. The tingling in her fingers was going away, maybe if she tried hard enough, she could fight him off. Her night dress was being lifted, his fingers felt slimy against her thigh. A hand grabbed at her breast, but all she could feel was a vague pressure. 

“Was your brother a good fuck? Probably better when he had two hands,” he was saying, but she couldn’t understand his words. 

He leaned down to kiss her again before sitting up to untie his trousers. She couldn’t move her head to see what he was doing, only felt the sensation of her legs being spread. Losing her maidenhood while drugged was not what she expected for herself. Her fingers grasped at the blankets beneath her, trying to fight for her strength, but she had none.

_Sandor, please… Help me…_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HotTopic!Euron might be my favorite thing ever, but he’s still a creepy fuck.


	14. time's running out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya gives in. The Golden Company heads North. Winterfell gets an unexpected visitor.

 

**14\. time’s running out.**

_In my daydreams, in my sleep,  
_ _infatuation turning into disease.  
_ _You could cure me, see all you have to do now  
_ _is please try.  
_ _Give it your best shot and try.  
_ _All I'm asking for is love,  
_ _but you never seem to have enough._

[— All Over You, The Spill Canvas](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

Arya struggled under his weight but found she couldn’t move. Euron had spread her legs and she could vaguely feel the cool air hitting her skin in places she didn’t want it to. She felt a lone, hot tear run down the side of her face as she laid there, completely helpless. 

Euron looked down at her, saying something with an evil chuckle, but she couldn’t understand what he was going on about. She clenched her eyes closed tightly, hoping it would all be over soon. Then she felt a warm spray on her face and tasted the metallic note of blood. Opening her eyes, she saw a blade sticking through Euron’s neck, his eyes wide in panic and surprise, and then he was falling to the floor with a dull thud. 

Sandor stood where Euron had been, holding the bloodied blade in his hand. Thick blood dripped from its tip onto the stone floor. She felt her tongue run along her lip, tasting the blood that was splattered there. Her eyes blinked back the salty tears and the feeling in her fingers began to come back. 

Pulling her shift down over her legs, Sandor sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms. Arya weakly pulled Cersei’s face off, her own brown hair falling messily over her shoulders. 

“Little wolf,” he spoke as softly as he could, his face twisted in contrition. “Did he hurt you?” 

Arya’s lips moved but she still could not get sound to come from her throat. Whatever had been given to her was wearing off, but slowly. Sandor ran a hand along her cheek, cursing himself for leaving her alone. Never again. Never again would he let her out of his sight, no matter how capable she was. It wasn’t worth it. No horse, or steel, or fucking barrel of wine was worth it. 

“I should have been here,” he chastised aloud to himself. “That bastard would have been dog food before he touched you.”

“It’s okay,” she croaked at last, the words sounding foreign as they rolled off her still slightly numb tongue. “I-I’m okay.” She was trying to convince herself as much as him.

Sandor ran his hand through the disheveled mop of brown hair along her face, and even with blood all over her, he found himself thinking she was beautiful. 

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he said resolutely.

“You can’t babysit me,” she glowered as she sat up at last, pushing the hem of the thin night dress down even further on her thighs. She still felt woozy, but at least she was gaining her strength back. 

He shook his head, his brow knitting together tightly as he grabbed her hands in his. Arya looked up at him, two faces merging into one as she focused. His eyes were sad—they were always sad, she had noted long ago. But there was a deepness to the sadness she hadn’t seen before. An urgency to it. 

“You’re no child,” he said, still holding both her hands. “But…” 

The words weren’t coming to him. It felt silly to have such a powerful need for her after such a short time being reunited. But there was a thread that linked them, an unexplainable connection that had brought them together in the first place. The world pushed them apart, but they always seemed to find their way back to each other. Whether it was the Lannisters, the Brotherhood, Brienne of Tarth, hell even death in all it’s many forms—they always found their way back to each other. 

Sandor frowned, looking at her small hands in his. She’d think him a fool for trying to explain any of this. 

“Be more careful,” he said gruffly as he set her hands down and stood to survey the dead body on the ground. The tally was growing in the chambers.

Arya eyed him dubiously. Perhaps in her dazed stupor she had made up what she saw in his eyes. He looked annoyed as he moved the body to a dark corner of the room, his brow set in a deep furrow. With effort she brought herself to her feet. The stone was cold on her bare skin, sending goose flesh up her legs. She shivered.

Sandor turned to look at her, small and not at all like the deadly assassin he knew she was. As miserable a place as King’s Landing was, he wanted nothing more than to stay here until what was north was dealt with. Hell, maybe even just go to Essos, or west like she had talked about. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her narrow shoulders, pulling her close as he kissed the top of her head.

“What is this?” she said against his broad chest after a few moments. The fabric of the tunic he wore was itchy against her cheek.

“What’s what?” he mumbled against her hair. She smelled like a proper lady, the fragrant clover and mallow replacing her usual scent of pine and leather. He preferred the latter, when she smelled like the untamed North.

“This. Us,” she moved back to see him.

“Why put words to it,” he scowled as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Because it’s a liability. A distraction. When we get back to Winterfell, it’s not going to be gilded walls and soft beds—”

“Winterfell has soft beds,” he corrected.

“Shut up,” she punched him softly in the shoulder, glaring. “We need to focus on what’s coming, you said so yourself.”

“Aye…” He thought about the things he’d seen north of the Wall with a shudder. The idea of her with blue, soulless eyes was almost too much to bear. He had tried to explain to her what he saw, but nothing was the same as experiencing it. Which, unfortunately, she soon would. 

“But we’re going to die anyway,” he reasoned as he grabbed her hand and pulled her closer.“Might be tomorrow. Might be the day after that.”

“Valar morghulis,” she muttered darkly as he kissed her exposed collarbone tentatively, not wanting to push any boundaries after what had just happened to her. 

But none the less, Sandor wanted to kiss every inch of her body. He fought the strong desire to tear the thin gown off and reveal more of her creamy, warm skin. The thought alone elicited a low, rumbling growl deep in his throat. 

“So why not?” he mumbled against her neck. 

“Because the dead are coming,” she repeated. The cold, sharp tip of a knife was at his neck suddenly and he moved back from her slowly to see a dark smirk on her face. “And because I said so.” 

“Is that mine?” Sandor eyed her hand and then his hip, recalling the last time she’d stolen his knife. She had been just a child, seeking revenge for the death of her family. Now, there was something sexual to it.

“Of course it is.” Arya didn’t remove the blade from his neck. In fact, she pressed it a bit harder into the skin, watching as it disappeared beneath his thick beard. 

“You won’t cut me,” he growled, grabbing her wrist.

“I could, if I wanted,” she countered, letting him pull her hand away. 

“Aye, you could do a lot of things if you wanted,” he took the blade from her hand, tossing it to the floor with a clatter. “Doesn’t mean you should.” 

Arya sighed and leaned in to press her lips to his as he wrapped his large arms around her much smaller body. Their bickering felt comfortable, his arms felt safe, and he knew her better than anyone, even her family. Perhaps especially her family. 

“This stays between us,” she said at last, resigned. He still held her close and their faces were only inches apart. “Sansa and Jon don’t need to be distracted by it. And we need to focus on what’s coming. There are bigger things to deal with.” 

“She-wolf…” he muttered as he kissed her chin, her jaw. 

“I mean it. If it comes to it, don’t you dare hesitate to do the right thing,” she warned. 

To Sandor, the right thing was protecting her and making sure she was happy. But he grunted his agreement none the less as he buried his face in her neck. 

“Let’s get some rest. We go home tomorrow.”

 

* * *

The Godswood was eerily quiet, like it always was. Save, of course, for the two beasts who grumbled and murmured within the trees. It was midday, though with the grey skies and the increasingly longer nights, it was truly hard to tell what time it was. 

“He seems to like you,” she said as she approached from behind, the snow crunching under her fine leather boots. 

Jon turned towards Dany from his place in front of Rhaegal, who had been sniffing his bare hand. She wore a long wool and leather coat in a deep red with the metal work of two dragons on the shoulders. A third dragon clasped the cloak over her shoulders at her chest. The large dragon loomed over them, his breath clouding in front of him. A muddy puddle of melted snow surrounded him. 

“I don’t know that _like_ is the right word for it,” Jon suggested with a tired smile as he slipped his glove back on. “Maybe sizing me up for dinner’s more like it.” 

Daenerys regarded him silently for a moment, her violet eyes seeming to pierce through him. “No, there’s something about you, Jon Snow. And he knows it.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the consequences of her finding out his true lineage. He’d kept a distance from her since realizing she was technically his aunt, but looking at her now, his heart ached for her, a pit of twisted emotions forming in his belly. 

“You’ve been distant since we arrive two moons ago,” she noted, turning to look up at the dragons from beside him. 

“Being home in Winterfell, with all these people, and the Night King coming, there’s been a lot on my mind,” he said, only half lying. He peered over the large fur on his shoulder to see if she believed him. 

“Well,” she began, as she looked over at him. “I wish you would visit me, Jon Snow.” 

Jon tried to hide his frown as he turned from her, looking down at the snow and mud on his boots. Part of him wished Bran and Sam had not told him what he knew now. He wondered how his father—uncle—had kept it from so many for so long. On certain days, particularly recently, he found himself aching for even a few words from Eddard Stark—he always seemed to know what to say to set him straight. He’d always be his father, even if he wasn’t truly. 

“Do you want to learn how to ride him?” Dany said, noting his silence was not going to further the topic. She’d have to take the tactical path.

He looked at the dragon, then back to her with a look of disbelief on his face. A bark of laughter erupted from his throat but he quickly quieted as he noticed her stern expression. 

“You aren’t joking…”

Daenerys walked up the Rhaegal, petting his snout. “We need every weapon possible, and without someone to command him, he’ll just fly where he wants, destroying what he wants.” She turned back to him. “Dragons don’t really know strategy,” she smirked at him. 

Jon pulled his gloves off, pocketing them. Approaching Rhaegal, his boots squelched in the mud. The beast’s nostrils flared as it smelled him again. 

“Raqiros,” Daenerys muttered to the beast, rubbing the side of his scaly jowl. Jon raised a dark brow at the unfamiliar word.

“It means ‘friend’ in High Valyrian. It’s how you command them,” she explained. “There are a few key words you need to know to work together.” 

Daenerys turned from Jon and began climbing to Rhaegal’s shoulders. He looked up at her hesitantly. This dragon was not as large as the other that had saved them, but it was still a gigantic creature. The silver haired woman held a hand down towards him.

“Shall we?”

 

* * *

Arya used Euron’s face to get the voyage to White Harbor going. She had played off Sandor as an assigned Queensguard for Euron, so it wasn’t suspicious when the man came into her chambers. 

She noted Harry Strickland as an odd choice for leader of the Golden Company—a small, round man who seemed more suited to sitting in a room giving orders rather than in the midst of the fight. She’d had to listen to his complaints of rough seas only a day into the journey. But it was no true concern of hers. As long as the Lannisters and Golden Company got to Winterfell in time, it mattered little to her. Strickland followed his orders, as long as he got paid. He probably wouldn’t survive anyway, so it _really_ didn’t matter to Arya.

The fleet was massive, and despite what Euron had said, was plenty big enough to carry the two armies. They had both stared in awe at the elephants as they stomped onto the ships, having never seen one in real life before. Unlike dragons which were believed to be magic, elephants just didn’t exist in Westeros. Arya preferred the dragons, Sandor the elephants—less fire.

She had made sure the ships carrying the Wildfire were at the back of the fleet, in the event the substance exploded. Sandor had appreciated that, having recalled the Blackwater burning years before when he’d unknowingly set his path towards her in motion. 

But the seas were unforgiving for the beginning of their voyage. As the cold, biting winds blew south, the water chopped high at the sides of the ships as they rocked back and forth as though they might tip over.

Sandor lurched towards the bucket he held between his knees as he sat on the edge of the bed. Chains and lanterns hanging from the ceiling swayed dangerously as the joints of the ship creaked.

“I told you not to drink so much before we set sail,” Arya scolded as she pulled a whetstone across Needle from atop a barrel of his beloved Dornish red.

“Don’t like boats, ’s why I drank,” Sandor said from within the bucket. He retched into it, the sound echoing inside the wooden walls of the vessel. Arya turned up her nose. 

“That was a stupid idea,” Arya commented. 

Sandor looked up from the bucket, his brow heavy with a sheen of sweat. Had he been able to, he would have cuffed her and the smug smirk she wore as she sharpened her little sword. 

“No shit,” he growled. 

“Well, we only have a bit more than a week of this. Not too bad,” she mused, the dull scrape of the stone on steel only serving to set him off again. 

His large arms were wrapped around the bucket as though it was his life line. They were only on day two of the journey. Sandor groaned.

Arya watched him out of the corner of her eye with a small amount of sympathy. Coming to her feet, she set her sword and whetstone on the desk and dug through her pack. 

“Here, chew on this,” she sat down next to him, holding out a few leaves. 

Sandor looked up from the bucket, eyeing her hand. “What is it?” 

“Fennel leaves,” she pushed them closer to him. “It’ll help.” 

He snatched them from her and shoved them in his mouth, as though to get on with the inevitable. It’d be in the bucket soon enough. 

Arya crawled up onto the bed behind him to silently remove the armor he still wore. By the time she’d finished removing the shoulder, back and breast plates, Sandor had managed to set the bucket aside, feeling the effects of the herb. Reaching to the desk, he took a swig of water to rinse his mouth before turning to her, a grateful look on his face. 

“Better, no?” She wiped the sweat from his brow with a small, hopeful smile. 

Sandor thought it ridiculous that his heart seemed to swell when she looked at him that way. Perhaps it was because he knew she acted like this with so few people. Perhaps it was because he knew from experience the effort it took to open up to a person. This was new territory for him as much as her. But if it felt right, that’s all that mattered. 

He gathered her in his arms and laid down, trying to ignore the swaying and creaking of the ship and instead focus on her soft breaths and strong heartbeat. They’d be home soon enough.

 

* * *

The snows had been unrelenting for the last few days in Winterfell. It was getting harder and harder to see anything, so when the horns sounded at the gate, the riders below were already upon the battlements. 

Three riders approached, barely clinging to their steeds as they rode into the courtyard. The horses nickered and brayed, agitated by some unseen force. The yard was dark, save for a few braziers that were struggling to stay lit, so Jon had approached with a torch in hand. Even having just stepped out into the snow, there was already a thick layer covering his dark hair. The circles under his eyes were made more apparent by the light of the torch as he held it out towards the riders as they dismounted.

One rider slowly pulled his hood back and a familiar one-eyed face looked up at Jon with a grave expression.

“Beric?” Jon squinted through the snow, stepping closer. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at Castle Black.”

Beric frowned, a darkness in his eyes. “Castle Black is no more.”

“The Night’s Wa–”

“There is no Night’s Watch anymore. They are soldiers in the army of the dead now,” he said solemnly. 

That meant Edd and the rest of the brothers he knew were no longer alive. He closed his eyes for a moment. Mourning their loss would have to wait for another time.

“Come inside and get warm, we’ll talk there,” Jon ushered them to the hall. 

The large hearth in the great Hall roared high and hot, casting an orange glow across the stone floors and up the tall stone walls. Beric and the two other survivors, recruits Jon did not know, had devoured the stew and brown bread put in front of them. Sam and Maester Wolkan were tending to their frostbite in turn.

“So, what happened?” Jon asked after he’d gathered a few other men, including Tormund, Jaime and Jorah.

“We were ambushed. There weren’t many left at Castle Black. It was a blood bath, but a quick one. Only reason we got out was because we were ranging south to look for the army of the dead, but they had stayed close to the Wall,” Beric explained, pausing to take a deep drink of the ale. 

“So we turned and charged south, with no provisions or gear. Though losing a finger or two is nothing compared to what could have happened as we got closer to Winterfell.” A grim expression shadowed his face.

“What could have happened?” Tormund asked as he put his hands on the table, looming over them with agitation.

“We almost became part of the army,” Beric explained as an almost wry smile graced his lips. “Along the Kingsroad, we had to divert when we saw them.”

“How many?” Jaime asked, his face pale.

Beric scrunched his nose as he thought. “Had to be close to all of them—a hundred thousand? It was a sea—well, at least from what we could tell. The storm was so bad, it was hard to truly get a sense.”

“Bad like it is here, now?” Jorah asked with a frown. 

“Aye, but colder. Much colder.”

“When was this?” Jon asked.

“Three days ago. We rode hard and fast to make the final stretch, and they were moving pretty slow,” Beric said, his voice getting low and gruff. 

“But they’ll be here soon. All of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't be stopped, ya'll. Made some head!canon appropriate fanart here: <http://fav.me/dbsjlpi>


	15. the battle for winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins despite the North knowing they don't have the numbers to win.

 

**15\. the battle for winterfell.**

 

_Your lungs have failed and they both stopped breathing  
_ _My heart is dead and its way past beating  
_ _Something has gone terribly wrong  
_ _I'm scared, you're scared, we're scared of this  
_ _I never thought we'd make it out alive  
_ _I never told you but its all in your goodbyes  
_ [—A Boy Brushed Red… Living in Black and White, Underoath](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

 

Bronn had thought the activity in the yard over the last couple weeks since him and the Kingslayer had arrived had been hectic, but it was nothing compared to now. They had received word that the Night King and his army were no more than two days ride away, and clearly headed this way. He’d worked closely with the armorer to build three scorpions, capable of _hopefully_ killing the damned ice dragon. 

He shook his head at the notion. _A fucking ice dragon._

Men and women alike hustled across the yard to their destinations, some with clothing and food, others with weapons—all an integral part in the war to come. But now that he’d helped with the scorpions, Bronn found himself with little to do except wait for the damned dead men to arrive. What a prospect. 

He heard a polite cough and turned from where he leaned against a post to see the Lady of Winterfell. Had it been any other moment in his life, he’d have tried to win her affections by now—Winterfell was a nice, big castle, and she sure was pretty. But any notion of that life was put on hold until he was sure he’d come out on the other side alive. 

“M’lady,” he nodded. “What can I do you for?”

“Ser Bronn,” Sansa sniffed, coming to stand in front of him, her delicate, gloved hands clasped in front of her. “It’s been brought to my attention that you do not have a job currently.”

“Would Jaime fucking Lannister have anything to do with this?” Bronn surveyed the yard, eyeing the one handed knight with some lads who were practicing with swords. Sad state when a one-handed man had to teach the boys how to fight. Bronn glared at him, only to receive a sparkling grin in return. _Cunt_.

“Yes, Ser Jaime suggested you may be a good fit for our scouting group,” she admitted, pressing the wrinkles from her skirts. “We need five men to ride out and seek out the coming army and send word back, so we aren’t caught off guard.”

“Do you now?” Bronn’s scowl deepened towards the Lannister man. “You know Jaime can’t really fight, with one hand? Maybe he’d be a good fit.”

“Ser Jaime is occupied with commanding our troops. Especially once Lannister forces arrive, we need him here in Winterfell,” Sansa said, growing impatient. “Please, ser.”

“Well, I’m not one to say no when a lady says please,” he grinned. With a resigned sigh, he followed her towards the stables, where the other men were mounting up. 

As he walked across the yard, the armorer was fitting boys and girls alike with chest plates—small and crude, but anything was better than nothing—the smith and the boy named Gendry were finishing up the last of the dragonglass weapons and carts of vegetables, flour and salt were being transported to the cellars. It was a madhouse, and had Bronn not been watching where he was going, he would have ended up with a broken foot, either by a horse or a cart. 

Up on the gallery, Jon Snow stood with the dragon queen seemingly in a deep, serious discussion. He wondered if the rumors were true about the two of them. Lucky bastard. 

“And they got you better armor?” Jon was asking Dany as they finalized their plans. 

“Yes, should do well unless another one of those large bolts comes,” Dany frowned as she absently watched Jon’s sister and another man walk across the yard. She caught his glance for a brief moment. 

“What of your sister?” 

“I’ve asked Brienne and Podrick to stay with them in the Great Keep along with some of the other non-fighters,” Jon said as they walked along the gallery. Snow fell heavily, laying cold and wet on their heads as they passed from one covered area to another. 

“And Rhaegal?” Dany looked at him anxiously. 

“Aye, him and I have had plenty of time together, think I’ve got the hang of it,” he smirked at her. “I’ll never be the _father_ of dragons or anything, but I think we’ll survive.”

She smiled at him, hoping for all their sakes that his words would be true.

Outside Winterfell’s walls the winds whipped fast and cold as the Wildlings, Northerners, Dothraki and Unsullied prepared for the coming battle around their camps. The air was charged with tension and fear, even those who had seen many battles before eyeing the sky anxiously. Without the southern armies though, they were marching to their deaths. Many men would certainly die before this was all said and done. 

Jon had left Daenerys to find Tormund, who was out in the Wildling camp near the Wolfswood. He squinted as he made his way around weapons, tents, fires and men in search of the red-bearded man. The snow had an icy quality to it, stinging his face as though it were a mini precursor to the coming larger battle—any way to damage the living.

He found Tormund at a fire near the edge of camp, closest to the forest. From here the wind was blocked mostly by the trees, making it more tolerable but somehow no less cold. 

“Tormund,” Jon called as he approached. 

The wildling looked up, a tired grin gracing his lips beneath the snow-crusted beard. Even Tormund, who was always jolly had grown weary over the last few weeks as the Night King had staged small raids on the castle. It would all be over soon, one way or another. 

“Snow, what are you doing out here in this shit?” 

“I want you to hang back with the other commanders when we go to war,” Jon stated, edging closer to the fire for any sort of warmth he could get.

“My men won’t be too happy to see me not pulling my weight,” Tormund growled as he grabbed a flagon of fermented goat’s milk and took a deep swig. 

“I need you to tell them where to go, what to do. This isn’t a village raid, we need to be strategic,” Jon glowered. “And sober.” He snatched the flagon from Tormund’s hand as he was about to take another drink. 

Tormund eyed him sternly and was about to say something when they both turned towards the trees to the sound of a wolf howling. Jon knew that howl anywhere. He shoved the vessel back in Tormund’s hands and stalked into the trees. 

The giant white direwolf was standing in a clearing, the snow falling around him, almost disguising him completely save for his bright red eyes. 

“Ghost!” Jon smiled and approached. “Oh, boy, it’s so good to see you.” 

The wolf was taller than he was now but wagged his tail as though he were still a pup as Jon scratched behind his ears. 

“Seven hells, what are you doing here?” 

Ghost growled and looked off into the trees. Jon followed his gaze but didn’t see anything. He wondered when the snow had stopped falling, when the temperature had gotten colder. Ghost let out a loud howl again and Jon knew it was time. The direwolf ran off in the direction he had been looking, and Jon ran back towards Tormund and the camps to move everyone into position. 

The loud, hollow bellow of the horns sounded out over the battlements as Bronn and the other scouts rode back, passing the men who had already begun getting into formation.

The catapults and scorpions had been readied in the days prior, their dragonglass weapons laying on the snowy ground beside them. The snow around the castle, particularly to the north had been packed down daily to make it easier for the horses and men to move. Three feet of snow was no place to do battle. 

Thousands of Unsullied and Dothraki men stood amongst the small Northern forces and Yohn Royce found himself grateful for the dragon queen’s help. If he made it out alive, the Vale would back this foreign ruler, he thought as his men advanced on their horses. Behind them, the screeching of the two dragons could be heard over the low hum of horse hooves as Dany and Jon mounted their own steeds. 

For thirty minutes, everything was silent as the living waited for the dead to approach. The waiting was the worst part of a battle, Jorah found himself thinking as he stood, sword ready, with Tormund and Beric. This all felt a little too familiar. Off in the woods to the west of where they stood, Ghost was howling loudly. 

Across the vast plains north of Winterfell the shadows of dead men began appearing, a faint, eery blue glow dotting the harsh landscape. Hundreds—no, thousands, marched towards them, flanking out seemingly endlessly. 

The three men exchanged a collective look, all knowing the others were thinking about how bad this was going to be. They weren’t adequately armed, nor did they have the numbers. In the back of everyone’s head, the thought of the southern armies danced like a sick joke. 

The sea of the dead parted and Walkers approached on horseback, several of them spread out over their width. All was quiet, except for the wind that wailed almost as loud as Ghost’s howling. Jaime approached the other commanders on horseback, along with Bronn. 

“Tormund, keep your men in line, watch for my command,” Jaime ordered and had it been any other circumstance Tormund would have cut the pretty knight’s other hand off. He gave a curt nod and they all turned back to watch the Walkers. 

They watched as the Walkers raised their spears and pointed them forward, a wretched screech howling from their dead lips. A wave of dead men began rushing towards the living with inhuman speed in the deep snow. 

“Archers ready! Knock! Loose!” 

Flaming arrows lit up the grey sky before falling into the pitch that lined the field. The Walkers might be strategic, but the wights did not learn and ran right into the flames, screaming and falling. 

The catapults creaked as they were loaded with the dragonglass bombs, before being lit and thrown into the horde. They exploded just before impact, sending fiery shards of debris and dragonglass into the dead army. More were loaded in rapid succession. A young boy slipped as he went to pull the catapult and disengaged the flaming ball. Eyes filled with horror before it exploded in place, shattering the bodies around it into pieces. 

Further down the line, Yohn Royce led the Knights of the Vale forward on horse back, clashing with the first wave in a flurry of screams from both sides. Men fell, the red blood of the living and the thick, black blood of the dead stained the snowy ground. Horses brayed and shrieked as they were taken down by wights, devoured without a second thought.

The Dothraki blood-riders yipped and hollered as they galloped past Jorah and Tormund, arrows knocked and ready to loose. As the horde ran towards the dead, an ear-shattering screech bellowed from the sky and the living looked up in frenetic unison. 

Jaime blanched at the blue eyed beast, knowing it was smaller than the one he had tried to kill, but none-the-less imposing. Perhaps more so with the menacing figure atop it and its bright blue eyes. It flew over the living, towards the castle, a spray of blue flame lighting up the trees within the walls. 

Behind them, the other two dragons howled as they took off, both to defend the castle.

From within the Great Keep, Sansa watched in horror as the Godswood burned blue.

“My lady, please,” Brienne pleaded. “We should stay away from the windows.”

Sansa felt helpless. She wasn’t a warrior like Jon, nor an assassin like Arya, nor even a greenseer like Bran—she was but a princess locked away in a tower, waiting for her fate. Her fingers ran over the dragonglass dagger Jon had given her. Would she even know what to do with it? None the less, she heeded Brienne’s words and moved towards the center of the tower where Gilly and Missandei sat. It reminded her of the Battle of the Blackwater, when the women were huddled in the center of the room praying and singing. She laughed to herself, knowing she had once led those prayers and songs. 

_‘What are you praying for?’_

_‘For the gods to have mercy on all of us.’_

_‘All of us? Even me?’_

For all the horrible that the woman was, Sansa had to give credit to Cersei for her many lessons. At the time, as a child, she had been shocked by them, but now as Lady of Winterfell, she understood their importance. Sansa wondered where her sister was now that Cersei was dead and how long it would take her to arrive with the Lannister army. Had it been all those years ago in the Red Keep, she may have prayed for the mercy of the gods.

_‘The gods have no mercy. That’s why they’re gods.’_

Arya wouldn’t want her prayers anyway. The Keep rumbled as the dragons flew over head and Sansa closed her eyes to regain her composure. 

Outside, the living were surrounded by the horde of the dead. Wights ran furiously, on fire from the exploding dragonglass bombs that rained down from the sky. Jorah and Tormund were at each other’s backs, fighting off a group of wights that had surrounded them. They snarled and snapped like mad dogs, their eyes both dead and full of anger. It was a never ending stream of dead. For every wight they cut down, it seemed three more appeared, somehow angrier and faster than the last. 

Jorah and Tormund ducked as a bolt of fire seared the wights near them as Drogon flew over. He frowned as he watched Daenerys fly off towards the Night King, the dragon lighting the dead on fire as he went.

_Khaleesi…_

“Get your head back in the game, Mormont!” Tormund yelled at him as he hacked with his dragonglass battle axe at the remaining wights that ran at them. 

One of the wights managed to get to Jorah before he could parry, the cold sting of death running through his veins as the creature bit his arm. He cut it down with a growl, kicking it back into two others before swinging at them. 

“Seven bloody hells!” Bronn was yelling, not far off as he kicked one away from the horse he still managed to ride. 

The creatures got the best of his horse though, and started biting into it, dragging it to the ground. A loud, bloody scream came from the animal as it fell, Bronn going down as well with a loud string of curses. He felt the crunch as the beast fell on his leg, trapping him in place. Scrambling over the horse, the wights came at him, teeth bared as they clawed at him. He fought them off as best he could with the dragonglass dagger he had, but the pain in his leg was becoming too much to bear.

Jorah noticed the scuffle and pulled away from Tormund to run to Bronn’s aide. He hacked and cut at the four wights on top of the horse. They turned their attention to him with a bloody snarl as they clamored over the horse towards the Andal with renewed hatred. Swiftly he cut them down, watching as their black blood stained both blade and snow.

Behind the wights, Jorah could see the dragons lighting the dead on fire in streams across the battlefield. With the four wights downed, Mormont pulled the dead horse up so Bronn could remove himself.

“Bugger it all, my fucking leg,” he grimaced as Jorah helped him to his feet. “I need to get back to the maester.”

“Can you manage on your own?” Jorah asked, his eyes following his Khaleesi across the sky. His breath hitched as she neared the Night King and Viserion.

“Aye,” Bronn managed, looking around and seeing Jaime not far off. “I’ll get Lannister to haul me there.”

“Good. They need me out there—” 

Jorah’s eyes went wide as the wights attacked from behind, grabbing at his shoulders, his neck, his arms. Their bites were cold and sharp as they snarled around him. He tried to hack at them but was overpowered and brought to the ground with a yell. 

“Shit!” Bronn tried to pick them off, but with his bum leg he wasn’t successful. 

The thunder of hooves came from behind him and Bronn turned to see Jaime approaching, his sword high in preparation to swing. The sellsword ducked as he rushed by, slicing the bodies of the dead in half with the Valyrian steel sword.

Bronn pushed the dead men off of Jorah. The man laid there, his body covered in his own blood and that of the wights, parts of his shoulder and neck missing and his eyes hollow and void of life. With a sigh, the sellsword lifted his dragonglass dagger and shoved it into the man’s chest to prevent him from turning. He hoped that would work.

Jaime swung back around as Bronn stood, holding out his good hand to pull the sellsword up onto his horse and rush him back to the castle.

The Kingslayer stormed the gates and helped Bronn get down as gently as he could. Sam could see the blood staining the sellsword’s pants and was making his way over with a cart, worriedly looking up at the sky in search of blue flames. 

The dragons screeched overhead as they fought, Drogon and Viserion clawing at each other as their riders hung on for their lives. As they passed over the castle, Drogon knocked into one of the towers and the large stones went hurling across the yard towards Samwell and Bronn, barely missing them. Daenerys managed to hang on, and Drogon pushed himself off the stone wall he’d grabbed onto back into the air after Viserion, but not before knocking off several stones from the top. 

The grey sky was glowing with dragon fire as the dead burned across the hills. Screams of half-dead men rang out—Dothraki, Unsullied, Northerners and Wildlings alike—but none louder than the howl of the dead as they attacked. From atop Rhaegal, Jon saw the chaos from above. The Godswood was burning bright blue, one of the walls and a tower of the castle had fallen. Dragonglass bolts flew into the air towards Viserion and the wight giants. Flaming arrows and blazing dragonglass bombs arced high before lighting the ground on fire, taking with it both the dead and the living. It seemed like their forces were dwindling as the dead seemed to keep coming. They were holding them off, but just barely. 

With a command, Rhaegal took off towards the back of the wights to light them ablaze. There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, that hadn’t even neared the true battle. If the Lannister forces didn’t arrive soon, there was no way they would survive this. The only hope was to get rid of Viserion and his rider, that would hopefully kill them all.

Furrowing his brow deep in determination, Jon went after the Night King.


	16. now it ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for the North, and the living, continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now It Ends" is a reference to Ned Stark. RIP buddy. Also there's fanart at the end of this that is specific to the chapter, so no peaking til you get there.

 

**16\. now it ends**  

_Here we are at the top of the hill_  
_A hill that's quietly crumbling_  
_Been a while since you dressed for the kill_  
_The kill that sent me tumbling_  
_Looking up, I see a falling star, and watch its fire burn into the floor_  
_I am left standing on the edge  
_ _Wondering why we fall so hard, why we fall so hard_

[—Kids In The Dark, All Time Low](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

* * *

 

The darkening sky of Winter’s late afternoon glowed blue and orange as the battle raged on outside of Winterfell. The combined screams of horses, men and the dead was a steady din across the countryside. Within the walls of Winterfell, the Godswood still burnt blue as men tried to extinguish the flames. From the sky, Drogon and Rhaegal circled the horde, bolts of fire igniting as many wights as they could, when Viserion wasn’t attacking them. 

Occasionally, a group of wights would suddenly fall to the ground as their Walker was killed, and that seemed to renew the primal sense of fight in the men and women as they, literally, fought for their lives. Flaming arrows flew high in the sky from the battlements of Winterfell before falling like water onto the unsuspecting dead below.

Ghost’s chest heaved as he growled at a pack of wights heading towards him and Tormund, his white fur covered in mud and blood. Lifeless bodies waiting to be burnt stained the snowy hills in red and black. Tormund climbed over them as he backed away, their snarling black teeth snapping as their claws reached for him. There were too many. 

The smell of burning and rotting flesh was almost too much to bear, if Tormund allowed himself to think about it too long. His eyes burned from the smoke and ash that hung in the dim, still air, his lungs heavy with it.

Knocking into another body, he frantically turned with a growl, raising his battle axe only to see it was Beric, equally wide-eyed as the horde approached. Mumbling a few words to himself, Beric’s sword exploded into flames and they began cutting the dead down, wave after wave.

“Duck!”

Jaime galloped by them, slicing several in half as he went. Beric and Tormund watched as he ran off the battlefield and saw the Lannister calvary rushing towards them, red and gold suits of armor shining brightly in the dragon fire. A wave of relief washed over them and with renewed vigor they turned back to the fight at hand. 

The ground shook as huge war elephants trumpeted their arrival, pulling trebuchets meant for wildfire behind them. Thousands of soldiers on foot and horse approached, signaling a turn in the battle at last. But the Night King took away their moment of excitement with a surge of blue flame from Viserion, cutting through the Dothraki bloodriders before disappearing high above the clouds.

The dark sky which would have otherwise made the fields hard to navigate, was lit by the flames of the living and then with a loud explosion, green was added to the color of the sky. The trebuchets began rocketing off barrels of wildfire with fuses that ignited on impact into the middle of the horde. 

But just when they thought they might be getting the upper hand, flames of blue returned again, setting part of the Lannister forces alight. Wails from the horses and screams from the men filled the field. Another wildfire barrel was ignited. The elephants trampled on the wights, trumpeting angrily as the dead began climbing their thick legs.

Inside, all Sansa could hear was explosions. The windows they stayed away from were glowing in orange and blue and then suddenly green. Little Sam was crying in Gilly’s arms as she rocked him, cooing. The door knob started moving and the wood creaked as something on the other side pushed against it. Metal scraped on metal as the lock was disengaged and Brienne drew Oathkeeper, stepping between the group and the door. The door thrashed and shook from the force on the other side.

With a crash, the large wooden door swung open and Arya and Sandor almost fell to the floor, breathless. 

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed as she ran around her protector to gather her sister in her arms. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to your face, Clegane,” Tyrion mused, clearly drunk on wine with little else to do. 

“Fuck off, Imp,” he growled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. 

Arya disengaged herself from her sister and surveyed the room. Podrick and Brienne were the only fighters, though all had dragonglass daggers close by. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I go back out there,” the younger Stark said hurriedly. 

“You cannot be serious!” Sansa balked. “Stay in here with us, you’re no use on the battlefield!” she pleaded, grabbing her sister’s gloved hands. 

Arya made a face as she roughly pulled her hands from her sister’s. “Jon needs me.”

Sansa blinked at her, as if not comprehending. “Jon is on a _dragon_ , he doesn’t need you.” 

Arya and Sandor exchanged a look. “Does Danery—”

“No,” Bran interjected. “He hasn’t told her yet. I saw what Euron Greyjoy tried to do to you,” he said flatly, looking over from the fire. 

“Uh yea,” Arya frowned, looking to Sandor. “I’m okay.”

“What did he do to you?” Sansa looked truly concerned. 

“Is this really what we should be talking about right now?” Sandor asked gruffly, growing impatient with the sibling reunion. 

Outside there was a loud explosion that rattled the Keep’s walls. A collective gasp and murmuring came from the room’s occupants and Arya took that as her sign to go. 

“I need to go,” she said, turning for the door. Sandor began following her, but was stopped when Sansa grabbed his sleeve. 

“Clegane, wait,” Sansa said quietly, quickly removing her hand from him. “Watch out for her, will you?” 

“That’s what I’m _trying_ to do, little bird.”

She fingered the dragonglass weapon in her hand before looking up at the scarred man with true worry. The back of her hair was glowing green from the flames outside and Sandor was reminded of their exchange in King’s Landing when Stannis had attacked. He frowned at the memory. Sansa held out the weapon.

“Protect her,” she said earnestly as he took it. 

They exchanged a charged look before he turned to catch up with Arya. 

Taking the steps three at a time, he caught up with her as she stepped outside. Without time to think, they began hacking and cutting through the wights that had breeched the gate. With a loud screech, Rhaegal landed atop the battlements and screamed flames at the wights that were rushing through. Sandor flinched, stumbling back as the heat of dragon’s fire warmed his face.

Briefly Arya met Jon’s gaze before Rhaegal pushed off the wall and was gone. Her heart was in her throat as she watched him disappear. _Brother…_ She started running towards the gate to go out into the fields when she felt a large hand grab her shoulder roughly.

“Don’t be stupid, girl,” Sandor growled as he pulled her back. 

“I’m not being stupid, you’re being too protective,” she snapped back, wrenching from his grip to glare at him. 

“You’re shit help out there. With your toothpick and dagger,” he tried to speak more calmly, but in the rush of the moment, was unsuccessful. 

“You just don’t want to go out there because of the fire!” Arya spat.

“Seven hells, wolf girl—I’ve seen the damned things before—they _swarm_. You’ll be dead before you take ten steps. We can defend the castle from here,” Sandor nodded up towards the battlements where men were shooting dragonglass arrows. 

Without hesitation, Arya ran towards the stairs that led up the wall, Sandor close on her heels. From up here, she could see the true extent of the war unfolding outside Winterfell’s walls. It was absolute chaos—elephants trampled wights with a heavy, wet crunch. A wight giant attacked one of the elephants, the beast trumpeting in agony as it was taken down along with the riders on its back. Wights swarmed over it like ants to honey. 

“Arry?” a hesitant voice called.

Arya looked around, wondering who was calling her by that name. Further down the wall, she saw a young man with dark hair wrapped in furs and squinted in the darkness to make out who it was. Her eyes went wide as she realized who it was.

“Gendry?!”

She ran over to him, not even hesitating to wrap her arms around his shoulders as he wrapped his around her waist. 

“Holy shit! How? I don’t understand…” She stood back, holding him at arm’s length, her grey eyes wide in disbelief. Then she made a face and lobbed a healthy punch at his arm.

“Ow! The hell’s that for?!” Gendry groaned, rubbing his arm. 

“For leaving me, you idiot! Before the red woman took you.” She glared at him. 

Sandor cleared his throat and Gendry looked up at the much taller man. 

“I see you brought her back safe,” Gendry noted.

Arya looked between the two men, confused. “Wait… you two know each other?”

“Aye, the whelp and I were north of the Wall with your brother.” Sandor stepped closer, almost possessively towards Arya. 

“I know we saw him fight Beric in the cave, but how did you come to be in the company of the Hound?” Gendry looked at Arya with concern, noting Clegane’s close proximity to her.

“Don’t call him that,” she defended which got her a snort from behind. “We traveled together, shortly after you were taken. Like… the next day, actually.” 

“You told him to burn in hell,” Gendry recalled skeptically. 

“And I repeated it several times after that while we traveled together—this is not important right now,” she shook her head, turning towards the chaos outside the walls.

“Don’t get yourself killed, I want a proper catch up,” he smiled as he handed her a bow and a dragonglass arrow.

Explosions of green, and streams of orange and blue flames appeared sporadically over the miles of open field. Knocking the arrow, she recalled Anguy’s lesson about not focusing where the arrow went—she let it loose, watching as it hit a wight below her.

Arya looked up as a dragonglass bolt was launched from a scorpion, hurtling through the air towards the ice dragon, just missing it. Viserion screeched as he turned towards the scorpion and set it aflame with blue fury. Arya gripped the stones in fear as Rhaegal flew towards the Night King.

“Here’s hoping this overlook doesn’t end with bad memories,” she heard Sandor grumble as they watched the chaos unfold. 

Arya cocked a brow at him, confused. She watched as he placed his hand atop hers. Gendry tried not to notice as well, as he grabbed more arrows for the soldiers along the wall.

“Your memory’s shit.” 

_‘I couldn’t kill you.’_

_‘And I’m glad you didn’t, little wolf. As painful as it was, I’d have it no other way.’_

A ghost of a smile graced her otherwise taut lips as she remembered. She looked out over the Wolfswood, now partially on fire, and for a moment was able to drown out the sound of screams and explosions. Perhaps once this was all over, a normal life awaited her, whatever that was. She could be happy, with her family all together again in Winterfell, hunting and sparring and enjoying the North like she had as a child.

A scream from the dark sky brought them back to the present, their eyes darting up into the clouds where the sound came from. The clouds glowed ominously in blue and orange. _Jon._

Plummeting from the clouds, Rhaegal and Viserion clawed at each other, blue and orange flames tangling together as their riders clung on tightly. Arya drew in a harsh breath, leaning over the battlements. Rhaegal got away from his brother’s grip and swooped to the side as Viserion let out a breath of blue fire. Viserion charged his brother, biting at his neck and not letting go. They started falling towards the ground, fast. 

“No!” Arya screamed as she watched them fall. Rhaegal managed to flap his huge wings enough that the impact wasn’t fatal, but Arya watched as both the Night King and Jon fell from their scaly steeds. 

Arya turned from the battlements to run to Jon. 

“Damnit, wolf girl!” Sandor cursed as he followed her, but not before turning to the smith. “Stay here, for your own safety.”

Gendry made a face and was about to yell back at him when a soldier called for more arrows. Cursing under his breath, he watched as Arya’s back disappeared down the stone steps. 

Arya took the steps two at a time, her heart pounding in her ears and stumbled to a stop as she heard the snarling of wights. _Shit, they’ve breeched again._

Sandor almost ran into her as he came around the curve of the stairs. She looked back at him, her eyes wide.

“We have to hold them off,” she said as she drew the catspaw dagger. Sandor muttered a string of curses under his breath as he pulled the dragonglass dagger from his hip. 

The stairwell was small, hardly wide enough for the two of them to stand next to each other. Their eyes met, the rush of the incoming threat clear on both their faces. Sandor leaned down, grabbing her head and kissed her forehead roughly. 

_‘Protect her,’ the little bird had chirped._

The snarling and screeching of the dead got louder as they climbed the stairs. As though it was a wave in the ocean, the wights came crashing around the corner towards them and Arya and Sandor began cutting and hacking as best they could in the tight space. As the dead fell, they had to back up the stairs to kill more of them. Wights started climbing the walls and ceiling, snarling their black teeth and grabbing for them with bare-boned fingers. Arya was knocked down as one fell on top of her and she groaned as she struggled to fight it off. 

Sandor wanted to help her but was overcome with three of them snapping at him. When he tried to push them away, their skin slid off in his hands with a nasty squelch. 

“Think this is it, girl,” he yelled over the growling wights as they struggled to kill them. 

It was a grim realization to think he’d die in a stairwell, only to come back and kill people he knew. Perhaps even her. Worst of all was if she didn’t survive and he somehow did. The idea was unbearable to him and he let out a loud, guttural battle cry as he hacked at the dead men trying to kill them. _Protect her at all costs._

And then they all fell to the ground like puppets whose strings had been snipped. Sandor pulled the wight off Arya and grabbed her hand, hoisting her to her feet. 

“Why did they do that?” she asked, looking around the dim lit stairwell.

“Their Walker must have fallen,” Sandor mused as they stepped over the dead, picking their way down the steps.

“I need to get to Jon,” she fretted as they ran across the yard to the gate. There were shattered wights everywhere.

 

* * *

 

_Just moments prior…_

 

Jon groaned as he sat up, his vision grey and blurry. He wasn’t in the air anymore, the cold, hard, wet ground was testament to that. His head throbbed and his ears rang, but over it he could hear the screeching of dragons. The metallic taste of blood overwhelmed his mouth. Blinking to gain his sight back, he saw the two injured dragons snapping and firing on each other. Thanks to Rhaegal’s maneuvering at the last moment, Viserion had taken the brunt of the fall. One of his wings was broken as a result, making it impossible for the dead dragon to fly off. 

That meant the Night King was on the ground too. With a pained grunt, Jon came to his feet, drawing Longclaw as he looked around for him. The ground was an angry mess of smoke and ash, screaming men and howling wights, rumbles of wildfire explosions and elephants stomping by. 

Through the ash he saw the tall, cold figure walking towards him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jon readied himself for a one on one fight with the Night King. He had defeated Walkers before, but did not know the true strength of their leader. Jon could only imagine. 

Wildfire exploded behind the Night King as he approached, creating an ominous shadow that moved towards him with purpose. The dead man drew his weapon and as he approached, swung at Jon, who met his swing with a clang of the Valyrian steel. 

This was the closest Jon had been to him. He felt cold throughout his body, as though death was trying to pull him into its cold shadows as he parried another blow. The Night King was strong, so much stronger than any fighter he’d ever gone up against before. Despite the commotion of battle around him, he felt like he was alone in a different world with this creature, trying helplessly to get a blow in. 

Wordlessly the Night King swung at him, over and over, impressed that Jon was able to meet his blade each time. But Jon wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. Where was everyone? Someone had to have seen the dragons fall, why was no one coming to his aid? 

A sharp, freezing sensation shot through his thigh suddenly and he fell to his knees with a pained groan. Looking down, the ice spear of a Walker was sticking through his right thigh, freezing him from the inside out. 

He couldn’t move. This was it. He had defended those who couldn’t defend themselves for as long as he could. A part of him was sad he wouldn’t get to see Daenerys one last time. Or Arya. _Oh, little sister. I’m so sorry I failed you._

With purpose, the Night King approached and stood over him with menacing silence. His eyes glowed bright blue and in addition to the cold that was seeping through his body from his thigh, he felt a coldness from being so close to the creature in front of him. 

“Why…” was all he managed before the Night King lifted his ice sword and shoved it through Jon’s chest. Jon’s eyes went wide as he gasped, the cold getting rid of any of the pain he remembered feeling the last time he was stabbed in the heart. 

And then he fell to the ground with a solid, cold thud. 

There was a thunder of hooves behind the Night King as he pulled his sword from Jon Snow’s lifeless body. The Walker who had thrown the spear was shrieking but before he could turn around, the Night King shattered into a million pieces as the gold pommeled Valyrian steel sword ran through his heart. 

Jaime Lannister watched as Viserion shattered, as the Walkers shattered, as the wights shattered. Everything was a loud explosion and then… silence. 

Eerie, final, silence. 

He looked around in wide-eyed disbelief as everyone came to a stop in their attacks. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer once again. 

“No! Jon!” Arya Stark was rushing towards him, her face panicked as she dropped to her knees at her brother’s side. Sandor Clegane wasn’t far behind, a deep scowl on his scarred face.

Her small fingers ran over the bloodied leathers at his chest as she sobbed, grasping at his cloak. A pained, raw cry—almost a scream—came from her as she buried her head in his furs, pulling him close. She rocked against his body, clutching him as though it would bring him back. 

Sandor locked eyes with Jaime and nodded him away before coming to stand behind her. Ghost howled somewhere off in the Wolfswood, sending gooseflesh up his arms.

“Jon, come on—Jon,” she was wailing through her sobs. 

It hurt to see her like this, helpless and fragile, unable to fix what was in front of her. Nothing would bring him back, nothing would change what had happened. And in the grand scheme of things, Sandor frowned, it was worth it. 

He looked around, squinting as the ash and smoke stung his eyes. The field glowed orange and green, casting long shadows as men and women alike started mourning their dead. A snowflake landed on his nose and melted and he looked to the sky to see snow begin to fall heavily. 

_Cunt gods and their fucking jokes._

They had been at his body for ten minutes now. Arya was still clutching her brother, but her sobs were getting quieter. Sandor leaned down and put a hand on her back. 

“He’s gone, girl,” he said quietly. 

Arya whipped around, her face soaked in tears, her eyes red and puffy. He could tell she wanted to yell at him, to hit him, to express her frustration and sadness in some way. And he wanted her to do that, because he knew what came next for her. He had been with her at the Red Wedding when she’d lost her mother and brother. But as he expected she crumpled into his chest with a loud sob, clutching onto him. Sandor wrapped his arms around her before she fell, holding her up, grasping her head against his chest. Was this what caring for someone else felt like? He wanted to be able to do anything to make this feeling leave her, but he knew that was impossible. 

Drogon landed not far off with a loud screech into the air and Daenerys jumped from his wing to the muddy ground. Sandor had picked Arya up at that point to carry her back to the castle. Their eyes locked briefly and Sandor lowered his head in grief towards the body on the ground. He turned away before Dany got there. 

She whimpered against his chest but did not move, even when they arrived in the gates. When Gendry tried to speak with her, she said nothing. When Sansa tried to speak with her, she said nothing. So Sandor carried her to her chambers and laid her down, pulling the furs over her. When he was sure she was settled and asleep, he turned to leave her to rest.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered hoarsely. 

Sandor turned back towards her, his hand on the handle of the door. She looked so small in that bed. So fragile and helpless, and he wanted nothing more than to do whatever he could to help her through this. Through anything. 

He walked over to the bed and without removing his armor or shoes, gathered her in his arms. 

“I’ll never leave you, little wolf,” he whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “Never.”

 

 

**[See original here. Lots of detail that's lost in this small version.](http://fav.me/dbt6eim) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I did that.
> 
> Not really. But there's some fanart to make up for it, maybe.


	17. i meant it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> final chapter. arya finds closure in sandor's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitely adult content in this chapter.

 

**17\. i meant it**

 

_Here in this room  
_ _I'm chasing down my demons, I can hear them breathing  
_ _But who knew  
_ _You would be my comfort, you could bring me healing_

[— Kamikaze, Walk the Moon](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

* * *

Sansa stood solemnly in the yard with Brienne at her side, bracing against the cold winds that blew their cloaks around. The snow blew through her thick furs and auburn hair as she watched as bodies were brought in. Thousands had died, but there were only two she cared about. She watched as the first was carried through the gates in Clegane’s arms, limp but uninjured. When she tried to speak with her sister, Arya didn’t respond but Sandor’s eyes said it all. 

_She’s okay, little bird. But the other wolf is not._

It was then that she learned of Jon’s death. While Sansa had never been close with him as a child, since escaping Ramsey’s wrath she had truly considered him her brother. 

She braced herself as his body was brought in, blood staining his leg and chest. Daenerys was walking behind the men who pushed the cart, her eyes red and her hair mussed up. The men stopped in front of the Lady of Winterfell and awaited her directions. 

His face was almost blue in death, but he still had the strong, proud look of a Stark. Sansa frowned as she ran her fingers over the tattered fabric of the cloak she had made him. 

“He’ll be buried in the crypt, with the rest of the Starks,” she said quietly, her voice breaking as she tried to keep up the facade the other’s in the yard needed from her.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said as they watched the men walk off with the cart. “He was such a good man, and he gave his life defending his home and his people.” 

Sansa looked over and watched as a few tears ran down the dragon queen’s face. “He was and he did. But it’s Arya who needs the condolences more than anything. She had insisted on helping him out here — they had only just been reunited when she took off for King’s Landing. He talked of her constantly while she was away.” 

Sansa bit her lip to hold back the tears that threatened to escape her reddened eyes. She clutched her hands together tightly, trying to focus on what needed to happen next. 

“What of you, my Queen?” 

Dany gave her a surprised look. A small, sorrowful smile graced the Stark woman’s lips. 

“It’s what Jon would have wanted, despite everything,” Sansa shrugged ever so slightly. 

“That will be a conversation with my Hand once things have settled here,” Daenerys said as she looked out over the yard as more people came in. She saw Grey Worm, but had not seen Ser Jorah. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I must go find someone,” Dany walked off, clearly preoccupied and distraught.

Sansa watched as the dragon queen walked off into the falling snow. The eldest Stark wondered how long Winter would last, now that the dead were no longer a threat. Rubbing her arms beneath her cloak, she turned to go inside with Brienne close at her heels.

 

* * *

It had been a week since the Battle for the Living. A week since Jon had died. A week since Jaime Lannister had slain the Night King. And a week since Arya had said a word.

Even as someone who appreciated succinct or non-existent conversations, Sandor was growing tired. But more than anything, he was growing tired of the incessant chatter from her sister who also couldn’t get her to talk. 

“She’ll speak in her own time, little bird. She was like this after your mother and brother were killed, when she was steps away and couldn’t do anything,” Sandor had tried to placate the auburn-haired Stark. If anyone knew how Arya Stark was after the loss of a family member, it was him.

When Arya wasn’t in her chambers, where Sandor had taken up residence at her request for the time being, she was in the Godswood. But she did not pray, she only practiced her water dancing in deadly silence amongst the charred remains of the forest. He found the scene hauntingly beautiful—this Goddess of Death practicing to kill her foes against a backdrop of charred, snow-covered trees with the heart tree standing tall and flaming red amongst it all. 

But he was patient. He followed her like the dog he was, waiting by her side when she needed him, and leaving her when it was clear she wanted space. A single look from him had most people leaving ‘Lady Stark’ alone when she did make herself present around the castle.

He never assumed she wanted him around at night, but every evening as he went to leave her chambers, she would grab his sleeve and plead with her eyes. _Don’t leave me._ So he would gather her in his arms as wordless tears stained his shirt. She clutched at him much like she had that snowy day a week ago and would fall asleep against his chest. 

On the week’s anniversary of Jon’s death, she wasn’t in her chambers when he came to bring her dinner. Given that it had been a week since her brother’s death, he figured to leave her alone and returned to his own chambers for the night. She’d come find him if she needed him. 

The fire was burning low when he heard the door click shut. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and saw her standing not far from his bed. Her cheeks were wet, shining in the dim light of the fire. 

“I need you,” she whispered hoarsely, as though she hadn’t said anything the entire week. Perhaps she truly hadn’t. 

“I’m here, little wolf,” he said quietly, as he swung his legs to the floor. 

Arya came to stand between his legs as he wrapped his arms around her waist. With her hands on either side of his face, she pressed her lips to his roughly, her teeth grazing his bottom lip as her tongue found his. Sandor pulled her closer, one of his hands tangling in the mess of brown hair that twisted at her shoulders. What he thought she meant by needing him and what was becoming a reality were quite different, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Her hands found their way beneath his shirt, pulling it off. Her small, timid fingers ran over the scars on his stomach, his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, over to the burns on his face. He pulled her close, kissing her softly as tears ran down her cheeks. With a strength he didn’t know she possessed, she pushed him to his back and climbed on top of him, her lips not leaving his until she pulled her own tunic off.

In the time since they’d first kissed in the woods outside King’s Landing, he had let her set the pace—he still didn’t think she truly wanted him. She had seen his bared chest many times, but as he raised a calloused hand to caress a small breast, he thought about all the times he’d hoped to see her. Her skin was warm and soft, but not without blemish. No, she had the markings of a fighter, clear as day even in the dim, fading firelight. 

A quiet moan escaped her lips as she nipped at his neck, sending gooseflesh down his side. One small hand found its way down between them to grab the ache between his legs and his fingers sank into the flesh of her backside so hard she’d likely have bruises the next day. 

Suddenly he was cold, without her on top of him and he thought it was all over as he opened his eyes. But she was standing topless just at the edge of the bed, toeing off her boots and untying the laces on her pants as she watched him. He sat up and watched as she let the pants drop to the floor before timidly fingering the edge of her small clothes. Sandor reached for her, pulling her close again as their lips met. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted quietly as he kissed at her neck and collarbone. 

“You a maiden, girl?” he growled, suddenly feeling very sober and free of any lust he’d had. He held her a bit away from him to watch her face. “I’ll not take that from you, you’re a lady.”

“Fuck being a lady, I want you,” she gasped as his hand trailed along her breast almost against his will. He couldn’t keep his hands from her. “I need you, Sandor.”

Sandor made a face as he looked over the mostly naked Stark girl in front of him. _Gods she’s a sight_ , he thought as his teeth ran over his lip possessively. 

“Your sister’ll have my head,” he frowned as she stepped out of her small clothes and pressed against him.

“Please… I feel so empty… I need to feel something…” she pleaded as her small hands reached for the ties of his breeches, the only layer that separated them now. “I want to feel you.”

Grabbing her hands, he pulled them away from the ties and held them to her side with a frown. He’d never had a maid before, but had heard stories. “It won’t feel good.”

“At least I’ll feel something,” she mused as she stood as naked as her name day in front of him. She wasn’t bashful, that much was certain. 

He looked her over in the dim light, appraising her lithe form. She was still skinny like she’d been as a child but the subtle curve of her hips had made itself present and with no fabric to hide behind, it was very clear to him now. Her breasts, while small, were round and supple and his fingers ached to touch them. _Fuck it._

With a wanton growl, he grabbed her as he stood and tossed her on the bed, crawling on top of her and crushing his lips to hers. She arched into him as he pressed against her, a thick thumb rubbing the hardening nub of one of her nipples. His lips trailed from her’s down to her neck, to her breast, to her stomach.

“What happened here?” He paused at her navel, running a thumb over the puffy scars. 

“Not important right now,” she whined, her chest heaving. “What are you doing?”

“Making it hurt less,” he murmured as he kissed her thigh, intoxicated by her smell. 

“I don’t understand how—oh!” Arya gasped as his tongue ran along the sensitive flesh between her legs. 

Sandor had never done this to a woman, but from the sounds she emitted, the heel digging into his back and the wetness that was gathering, he must have been doing something right. She was a lady even if she wouldn’t admit it and deserved to be kissed everywhere. 

It took a bit of patience on both their parts, but soon enough she was crying out in ecstasy, to the point where Sandor worried someone might come to see if he was torturing a cat in his chambers.

“So, you’re a screamer,” he said huskily as he came back to her lips. 

“I suppose so,” she grinned into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue. Her heart was still in her throat, pounding in her ears as she reached down between his legs. 

Sandor growled as she grabbed him with unpracticed hands—they both had plenty to learn. He nipped at her neck as she ran her fingers along his length, sighing into his ear. 

“Sandor please…” hearing his name from her lips, in such a lascivious manner, made him harder than he thought possible. He unceremoniously removed his breeches and smirked as she gasped at what she saw. 

“You’re… proportional,” she said hesitantly.

“I told you it wouldn't feel good,” he grumbled, but she pulled him to her lips before he could protest further. 

Her small hand stroked him as he kissed her, a sensation he never expected to feel. Not from his former meal ticket. Not from the wolf-bitch. Not from his little wolf. She grew impatient after a few minutes of him kissing and nipping at her neck.

“Sandor, please…” she begged again and if it had been any other person he would have plunged deep inside with no concern. 

But it was Arya Stark, and he would do everything to make sure she was safe, unharmed, happy. Shifting between her legs, he pressed against her opening and paused, searching her face. Arya was panting under him, her legs high around him, her arms around his neck, almost clawing at the back of his head and shoulder. Even in the dim light he could make out the color of her eyes, the cold grey of the North. But they were warm, open, wanting. 

Leaning down to kiss her, he slowly began pushing himself inside her warmth, both of them groaning in pleasure. Soon enough he was buried deep inside her, squeezed on all sides. He could see stars, having never been with anyone other than whores who had opened their legs to hundreds if not thousands of men before him. 

“Seven hells,” he muttered into her neck. “Tight little thing.”

Arya’s nails would clearly leave marks on his back and her teeth on his neck the next day. Sandor didn’t care. The sensations he was experiencing right now were unlike any he’d had in all the years he’d bedded women, for all the women he’d bedded had been given a coin afterwards. This one wanted him, seemed to crave him, and it did things to him he never thought he’d experience. Her body arched into his as he fucked her languidly, soft gasps punctuated by his movements. If it hurt, she wasn’t letting on, but by what he felt and heard it seemed she was enjoying herself. 

His movements quickened as he pushed up on his hands to watch her keening beneath him, a hand on his chest, another around his neck. Her long, pale neck was twisted and exposed as her head lay back in pleasure, her chest heaving as she panted. Before long he was grabbing at her hair, her head, her neck as he pulled out, spilling his seed between them as he held her close.

With effort, he pushed himself to lay beside her with a grunt, tossing his arm over his face. 

“Fuck, wolf-girl,” he groaned. “Did I hurt you?”

Arya turned and laid on his chest, looking up at him. “You can’t hurt me,” she said defiantly, and he was pleased to see some of her spark back. 

Sandor pulled the furs over them as she nestled into the crook of his arm with a sigh. The empty hole in her chest from Jon’s death was still with her, and would be for some time no doubt, for she still ached for Robb, Rickon, mother and father, but for the first time she felt like she had something to help her through the pain of their memories. 

More than anyone, he had been there for her. Years ago when she was but a girl, and now as a woman, he had been the only one she could truly rely on. He’d helped her survive, helped her retrieve Needle, almost gave his life to keep her safe. He’d kept her warm as they traveled South, defended her from men who’d do her harm, helped her kill those who had wronged her family, kept her safe during the Battle for the Living. While Winterfell had a lot to do in order to rebuild, perhaps she could finally call it home once again. Perhaps.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when Daenerys heads South… Sansa is Wardeness of the North, Lady of Winterfell. I may not get to live here for long,” she frowned against his chest. 

“Figured you’d put up more of a fight, little-wolf,” he absently ran his fingers along her side.

“I will as much as I can, but that doesn’t mean much. Girls don’t get to write their own stories.”

“You have so far,” he mumbled, half asleep.

“I’ll do what Sansa needs me to do,” she resigned, finally understanding the importance of loyalty and duty.

“Well, I’ll follow you wherever you go,” he said as he kissed her head, pulling her closer as they fell asleep.

 

* * *

  

_So you can drag me through Hell_  
_If it meant I could hold your hand_  
_I will follow you cause I'm under your spell_  
_And you can throw me to the flames_  
_I will follow you, I will follow you_  
  
_Come sink into me and let me breathe you in_  
_I'll be your gravity, you be my oxygen_  
_So dig two graves cause when you die_  
_I swear I'll be leaving by your side_

[ **- Follow You, Bring Me The Horizon** ](https://open.spotify.com/user/grafxnerd/playlist/05J4jKK26wHbCMcwEBv0il)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear what you thought! There will be a follow up to this called 'Save Me' in the future, so if you don't subscribe to me as an author or to the story arc 'Where The Heart Is', do so now to be updated when I start posting chapters.


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